


Hard Knock Life

by AKA_Green



Series: Teenage Wasteland [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, BAMF James "Rhodey" Rhodes, BAMF Jarvis (Iron Man movies), BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Tony Stark, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blood and Violence, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Soldiers, Disturbing Themes, Fluff and Angst, Foster Care, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, James "Rhodey" Rhodes Needs a Hug, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Medical Experimentation, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Platonic Relationships, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Protective Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Red Room (Marvel), Snarky Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Sort Of, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, tony loves FASHION
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-07-18 20:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 252,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16126232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKA_Green/pseuds/AKA_Green
Summary: This is the prequel to Smells like Teen Vigilantism. This is how all of our favorite vigilantes came to meet and what past follows them into Teen Vig.(Teen Vig has not been updated to match this, that is a later project for when this is complete.)





	1. Don't it feel like the wind is always howl'n?

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: SERIOUS AND DARK TOPICS AHEAD! IF YOU ARE CONCERNED ABOUT THE PRESENCE ANY SPECIFIC TRIGGERS, PLEASE COMMENT AND I WILL QUICKLY ADD TO THE TAGS IF IT IS INDEED PRESENT IN THIS FIC!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky starts getting used to ducking the profane and abusive language of his fellow foster kids. Sometimes, on his bad days, the words cut deep. They make his bones and skin hurt and when they see that they renew their efforts. Some days Bucky goes to bed with foul language ringing in his head and tears in his eyes.
> 
> Other days he reacts to them like they’re his name. They don’t have anything on the pain he feels on a regular basis or the nightmares that pollute his sleep.

* * *

The thing Bucky remembered best was the fall. Most everything else was a blur.

It was a freak accident, they said. Train going a bit too fast hit a rock slide on the track, not stopping in time because of the short amount of time between spotting the rock slide verses hitting it. The front of the train immediately got fucked, crunched like a tin can, pinned under the rock slide and a few hundred tons of speeding train. The rest of it turned into a broken mess, like a splintered stick a particularly destructive toddler got a hold of. The trailers went in all different directions, and Bucky’s, at the front, crumpled and popped open like shaken soda can before it veered and hung off the side of the cliff.

Bucky doesn’t remember getting on the train, or even really where they were or why. He can’t remember some of the past week. He thinks they were just doing some sightseeing, a little family vacation, but he doesn’t know, not for certain, not anymore. They tell him that he was in Italy. He can’t remember having gone to Italy. He can’t remember. They tell him that he got transferred from the Italian hospital back to the one in Brooklyn as soon as he was stable enough for it.

At least that part makes sense.

Bucky remembers having a grip of some metal bar, who knows where from. He remembered the cold unsteady metal in his hands, fingers holding tight, holding on for dear life so hard his arms aches.

There’s a blur of motion. The inside of the train was crushed, he couldn’t see anyone and something in his mind tells him that he’s the only one that survived because he fell outside somehow. He remembered how the bar in his hands gave with a groan and a crack.

Then free falling, empty air swallowing him up, tearing at his body, the roar of wind in his ears.

He fell for only a few seconds, seconds filled with panic and his own scream in his ears. The flailing, the desperate reach for the train, to grab onto anything as gravity was lost around him, as gravity pulled him to the ground, unyielding to his burst of desperation and fear before he landed hard. He remembers a bolt of pain through his body, his head cracking against something, hearing the groan of metal above him, and then nothing.

He wakes up without his left arm, alone, in a strange place, with strange people, and he panics. They need to sedate him three separate times when he wakes up and freaks out, knowing that his family is dead and he’s in pain, and he can’t feel his arm, and everything _hurts_ -

And then blissful darkness following a sharp pinch in his neck.

The fourth time he cries, hot tears flowing down his flushed face, sobs trying to contain themselves in his chest and choking him. A nurse has to help him calm down, keeps speaking to him in soft tones, telling him that he’ll be alright, and everything will be okay, but Bucky doesn’t believe a word she says because he knows it’s not true, not true at all.

When he feels empty, and his face aches and eyes burn, they tell him what happened.

The explain that after he fell, a large piece of the train landed on his shattered left arm, mangling the practically unsalvageable limb further. They say it was a miracle the fall didn’t kill him. They say it was a miracle that the piece of train didn’t land on him and crush him, how it actually pinned his arm so hard it practically turned into a tourniquet, which let them save him despite laying there, unconscious, his arm mangled and bleeding, for over an hour. They say it was a miracle that he just cracked his skull, broke some ribs, how his left arm took all his weight and the force he fell onto it. They say it was a miracle that he only had bruises, scrapes, and lacerations and otherwise, considering the state of the other bodies on the same trailer as him.

They say him surviving was a miracle.

Bucky looked around the barren room, white almost blinding him, and machines hooked up to him left and right, the odd feeling of both having an arm and it being numb hovering by his side, and thinks that this isn’t a miracle, this is a curse. His parents were dead, and he missed them so much it physically hurt not to have them there, an ache in his heart and head, like a throbbing relentless headache, the beeping of the monitors around him contributing to each ache, a heartbeat where two were gone.

He was miserable, and he could tell that it rubbed off.

The sad orphaned teenager who had no visitors save a skinny blonde boy who half looked like he belonged in the hospital and a CPS agent. The idiot from CPS somehow got it across that people weren’t looking to adopt armless traumatized teenagers that looked like they had been sleeping on the streets, too. Sure, Bucky looked a little rough around the edges, but it seemed a little unfair. Bucky liked his long hair, he could do a lot with it. Braids, buns, the whole shebang. His mom always liked it long, though his dad was hesitant when Bucky said he wanted to grow it out a few years ago. He grew to like it too, after they got past the horrible _too-short-to-do-anything-too-long-to-be-presentable_ stages.

The grief was crushing with everything that continued to happen. Then, as icing on the top of the fucking cake, while Bucky was still in the hospital, Steve had a sudden cardiac arrest attack because of the heart arrhythmia that Steve’s grandmother never got treated along with the stress that came with a best friend being in the hospital. Bucky knew that cardiac arrest, especially sudden cardiac arrest, was very dangerous. What he didn’t know is that about 95% of people who get it die within minutes. Steve was lucky enough to have an ambulance practically just down the street and he collapsed on the sidewalk, not up in his apartment.

Very, very, very lucky.

That was the real miracle, that Steve survived. If Bucky lost Steve, he would have taken a scalpel to his neck or found all the pills he should never swallow and down them with bleach. Bucky knows himself well enough that losing everything, losing Steve on top of it all, would have ruined him. He would have been nothing, he’d be an empty body. His blood would have meant zip to him, the pain would have dulled to nothing. He would have been a husk.

It’s a scary thought. It’s a very scary thought, knowing that if anything happened to the one thing he can call his own, his best friend, the boy who was Bucky’s last link to his life, he would do anything to join him at the end of the line. It’s a desperate, possessive, unhealthy thought, but it floats by him, hovers out of sight until he’s thinking about everything.

Bucky wobbled through the hospital on unsteady feet to visit, drugged with painkillers, off balance because of his arm being gone, and found himself sitting in the chair next to Steve’s bed feeling kind of subdued and helpless as he held Steve’s cold hand. They had done this medical hypothermia thing to him to make sure he didn’t get brain damage and he was still a bit frosty. Bucky doesn’t understand all of it, but Steve himself looked pretty trouble about the whole thing when he was conscious enough to understand what was happening.

Bucky hated talking to people now. He used to be the life of the party, the goofball, the extrovert, Steve’s best bud, a guy who knows how to fill the time with fun, but now he found himself snapping at nurses and doctors. They offered condolences, told him if he wanted to talk about it he could, told him that they were sorry it happened. It didn’t mean anything, they didn’t understand. He got fucking _stuffed animals_ and he hated them because he’s getting presents for his parents being dead and him losing a fucking limb. He didn’t fucking want anything to remind him of what happened, especially glass eyed fluffy _bears_. His reminder was with him permanently, a big fucking empty sleeve.

He minded the sweets less, helped distract himself from the pain, but he loathed to speak to anyone, despite the bribery.

Steve understood the most. He recognized that it sucked, and he said sorry too, but he understood what Bucky was feeling. Understood the pain. He didn’t try to give Bucky presents, not that he could with how fucking poor both their families were, the medical costs of all this had to be insane but it wasn’t Bucky’s problem and apparently Steve’s mother had life insurance that Grandma Rogers was saving and used to pay for Steve’s medical bills.

Steve gave Bucky reminders of how happy he was with his family, how they’d be remembered. He told Bucky he didn’t have to be accepting or happy about it, didn’t have to put on a smile because it really fucking sucked. His emotions were his own, he could be angry and sad, and ache down to his soul. He told Bucky it was all in how he got through it that was important, not sticking on a smile and calling me fine.

It made him fucking cry every time, and it made him angry, but never at Steve. Not Steve, who sat on his hospital bed with him and let Bucky hold at him so hard it left bruises, face buried into Steve’s hospital clothes as his wet sticky face from crying. Not Steve, who tried to fight a nurse when she came in when Bucky couldn’t stop crying and _needed a fucking minute, okay?_ Never Steve, who kept him grounded.

They traded emails. They’d never needed to have them before because they lived so close, used to sit on opposite fire escapes and talk, put a plank over the railings and walk over. When they got bigger, they used to jump. Stupid of them, Steve broke his leg falling once.

Bucky couldn’t attend the burial, as he was in a medically induced coma for it, but before Bucky was taken to his foster home, his CPS agent let him visit, standing a respectful distance away while Bucky just about sobbed his eyes out over two cold headstones with his parents' names on them. It was a kind of shitty day, hot and muggy, but no sun out. If the sun had been shining, Bucky would have felt worse. Feeling drained and exhausted, his head hurting, world-weary, he places the stones he brought on each headstone and stood, fist clenched as tightly as his eyes as he tried to get himself under control.

He wondered why it happened, why it happened to him, why it happened to his family. Bucky’s mom and dad had never done anything to deserve this. It didn’t make sense. Though, maybe it wasn’t supposed to. It made Bucky realize just how little control he had over life, what happens around him. Steve. His family. All of it was up to crazy fucking chance and Bucky got dealt shit cards.

It was all just… happening around him. He had no control. It made him feel small. Useless. He wanted to be invisible and disappear.

Bucky packed up his belongings at home, a few books, a couple of photographs, the laptop he got for his Bar Mitzvah, his clothes, his dad's jacket, and his Dodgers hat. They might not have been in Brooklyn for over sixty years, but it was at least their home city. He left his baseball bat, his glove, and his ball. Not a lot he could do with just his right arm in that regard and he wouldn’t have Steve to come play whenever. He took his multi-tool, his lucky top, his journals ( _they’re not diaries, Steve, cut it out_ ), his iPod, and headphones.

It hurt most to leave his guitar behind, but he just couldn’t make himself bring it knowing that he’d never be able to play it again. Well, that’s not true, it hurt most to leave the apartment behind, his home, where he was raised and where he had been tucked in at night by his parents. It hurt most to leave his life behind because it wasn’t something he could take with him except in his memories, but leaving the guitar hurt.

After losing his arm, Bucky was struck by what he was unable to do, or at least, what was very difficult. Tying shoelaces, buttoning his pants, playing video games, playing guitar, turning book pages because they kept closing, making food, cutting things, riding a bike, putting clothes on, getting clothes off. It was a hassle. Everything was a hassle. He managed. They did a whole stupid PT thing and taught him the basics on how to function, but it wasn’t super comprehensive.

Bucky was taken away by his social worker, Jen Tennent, to meet his foster parent, Chase Williams. She gave him her card and a nice smile. Not a lot of interacting between them, but it wasn’t a problem. The house was… decent. Small, but still bigger than his old apartment. No trees, smallish backyard, chain link fence all around. But he’d never had a yard before. Chase himself had a beer belly and looked like he slept five hours each night. Seemed okay enough, but Bucky didn’t have any strong opinions either way, he just wanted to be left alone.

The first night was the worst. He felt like he was in the wrong place. He wanted to go home to his mom and dad, but he couldn’t. His nightmare that night was so vivid he didn’t know where he was when he woke up and didn’t move for five minutes because he thought his arm was pinned by metal and agony.

When he snapped out of it, the feeling of being somewhere else fading as reality settled onto his shoulders, he scribbled down what he dreamed last night in his journal, what he was feeling. He sighed and rubbed his face glaring at the horrible sunlight shining outside the window. He felt tired and his mood wasn’t helping. Bucky had been internally feeling ‘what the _fuck_ ’ for a while. Usually when everyday things were nice outside of his own funk. So seeing the sun shining like that made him want to put his fist through his window.

Breakfast was a bowl of cereal. Stale Cheerios. Bucky stared at his bowl. He’d eaten most of it, but the Cheerios got too mushy and he didn’t want to go after the last fifteen or so. He’d been staring for ten minutes. Maybe he should do something about it. Bucky ripped his stare away and noticed Chase smoking in the living room, watching the news. It made Bucky wonder if smoking was anything like drinking. Was it weird to smoke at eight in the morning? Or not? His parents never smoked. Neither did Steve’s grandma.

It was still summer, so he could basically do whatever he wanted. It didn’t seem like Chase was too invested in his location. Bucky dumped his leftover cereal in the sink and went to his room. He put on his mother's necklace, pocketed his lucky top, grabbed his iPod and earbuds and mumbled that he was going out to Chase.

He kind of just wandered around, keeping his head down, not looking at anybody, even though he was also keeping track of where he was so he didn’t get lost. That would be worse. He’d have to ask for directions or something.

[ _“I was walking~ far from home, where the names are not burned along the wall. Saw a building~ high as heaven, but the door was so sm~all, door was so small. I saw rain clouds, little babies, and a bridge that had tumbled to the ground. I saw sinners~ making music, and I dreamt of that sound, dreamt of that sound,”_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkUYOfHiPK8)he sang softly to the lyrics as he traveled.[ _“I was walking~ far from home, but I carried your letters all the while. I saw lovers~ in a window, whisper, ‘warn me like time, warn me like time.’ I saw sickness blooming fruit trees. I saw blood and a bit of it was mine. I saw children in a river, but their lips were still dry, lips were still dry.”_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkUYOfHiPK8)

He found a library and the school. He realized he didn’t know if he had summer reading stuff to do because schools always had bullshit summer reading assignments and he considered the building. The hours on the sign said that the middle school was open, so he hesitantly found the front office and stepped inside.

The secretary blinked at him probably surprised to see a visitor, much less a ragged looking child who probably had bags under his eyes. “Um, what can I do for you, honey?”

“Um,” Bucky mumbled, not meeting her eye. “I think I’m going to school here. For eighth grade. I… wanted to see what the summer reading was?”

“Oh,” she said, realizing what he needed. “Of course. Let me just print you a sheet, honey. Just wait here and I’ll get you something.”

She had a ton of papers on her desk and she started rummaging through them to find the correct sheet. “I coulda sworn-” she muttered. “Hold on a sec, hon, I’ve got to find the copy so I can put it through the copier. Do you mind holding some things for me? I don’t want to mix piles and I’m pretty swamped.”

“Um. Okay,” Bucky said, dully surprised and suddenly nervous. He held out an arm and she put a few binders and a stack of papers on it. His arm started trembling pretty soon.

“You might want to use both hands, honey,” she said as she flipped through some folders.

“Wish I could,” Bucky said immediately and then found himself surprised that he even joked about his missing arm like that.

She looked at him, quirking her head and scrunching her eyebrows. She looked at his dangling sleeve and realized that it didn’t hold the same contents as the other one did. Her eyes widened comically, like dinner plates, full moons, bigger than they had any right to be. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she said, flushing red and bringing her hands up to her face, almost giving her cheek a paper cut.

“S’okay. Y’didn’t know,” he replied awkwardly. “I’ve got ‘em if you don’t add any more.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. I- found it! I found it. Okay, so you can put those on the blue binder there,” she pointed and Bucky awkwardly tried to slip the stuff out of his arm without spilling papers. He was very close to failing when she gave him a hand and then went off to copy the page. He felt stupid, not being able to put it down right, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

“I’ll make a couple so the next people don’t have the same hassle, sorry hun.”

“S’okay,” Bucky mumbled. When he got it, Bucky folded the thing with his hand and stuffed it in his pocket. “Thanks, miss,” he said politely.

“You have a good day now hun.”

“Thank you, you too.” He ducked out and went wandering again. Eventually, he felt tired and went back to the house, finding nothing of interest except the library. Chase was in more-or-less the same position, but now he had a beer. Bucky knew he worked, worked during the week, had a job as a welder, or something. He wasn't sure.

“I’m back,” Bucky offered.

“Great,” Chase said shortly and Bucky went back to his room, closing the door.

Bucky sat in his room and scribbled down what he did, taking a brief break to spin his lucky top and just stare at it. It was the creepiest thing on the face of the planet. It was one of those older plastic tops that played a melody when you spun it. It was so old, though, that the quality of the recording had somehow degraded, whether through use or low battery, that it sounded scratchy and haunted. It sounded like spinning it would literally summon the devil or something.

It played an electronic bit of Für Elise and used to have a little light inside that lit up when it spun, but when the volume cut and didn’t come back, Bucky snipped off the light and it worked again. It also fuzzed out, skipped, and replayed portions despite having played them a few notes before for no reason. It still sounded like Satan's spinning top but Bucky loved it to bits and was dead convinced it was lucky despite the creepiness of the static tune that sometimes cut out to spin in dead silence, how could anything so comically evil be anything but lucky?

It was a gift from Steve from when they were seven, got it at a thrift store for fifty cents.

So it was a very lucky top.

He finished his entry and made himself some mac and cheese for dinner because Chase didn’t seem inclined. It was fine. Mac and cheese isn’t hard to make and doesn’t really require more than one hand. Opening the top of the box was a bitch, sure, but he could just kinda tear it off between his hand and teeth.

Later, he checked his email.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey bucky how you doing? Settling in? Jeez, I dunno. I hope it’s nice, at least. Anyway, that mangy alley cat that comes around every week let me pet her. She’s real sweet. Hell on my allergies, i was sneezing for like an hour after, but still._ **

Bucky read the email twice and blinked slowly, feeling a tug of fondness in his chest.

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_Im ok. House ain’t bad. Nice about the cat. She’s cute, if… ugly. And Jesus, what were you doing that close to cats ur allergic to like all animals, give them a break. dumbass._ **

Over the weeks, Bucky settled into the foster house some. Chase and he barely interacted, except at a distance. Bucky noticed that Chase had a perpetual five o'clock shadow and sometimes forgot to shave, didn’t care too much about how he looked, his appearance or otherwise, kinda smelled gross. It wasn’t bad… at first. Chase mostly left him alone, drank beer from the moment he got home until the moment he passed out on the couch. Kinda cranky, but Bucky attributed that up to him being perpetually hungover and having backaches from sleeping on the couch so much.

Starting school in September was a pain but also a freeing experience. He was new so there were no expectations on him and the teachers liked him because he focused well and did his work on time, didn’t talk to other kids in class, didn’t care to. He sat in the back, he kept his head down, and he was quite, willing himself to vanish into the wall. Gym was kind of terrible because he was still getting used to his new balance, hated the way his fucked up stump looked, the scars, and he wanted to keep his jacket on even in 90-degree weather.

At the house, Bucky was left to his own devices, but he had to make food for himself, was too unnerved to ask for help with anything, and by the time he was put into his last year of middle school, he still was not over the unnerving lack of response from his missing arm. To compensate for that, he just wore his dad’s jacket and a baseball cap. The sleeves were just long enough to cover his hands to the knuckles, so he positioned the sleeve whenever he sat and quietly asked for other people to do things that required two hands.

It almost was convincing enough. Sometimes he forgot it was missing, and it was nice. He had to buckle the strap across his chest because one strap of the backpack kept slipping off his shoulder though. Quick reminder, that was.

All the pencil sharpeners in the classes were handheld ones or those ones bolted to the walls with the crank, so he got by with dull pencils, pens, of mechanical pencils. Sometimes it made his handwriting look shitty, but Bucky had bigger problems than penmanship.

For one, Chase started getting snappish when he was drunk, which was a lot of the time. It started small. A shout, a violent swear, a bit of pushing, a swat upside the head when chores weren’t done. Bucky didn’t give a shit, he was just tired of it. Bucky didn’t like when he yelled and called him names when he didn’t do his chores or when he didn’t get the man a beer fast enough, but it wasn’t bad. He just had to do what he was supposed to then he could escape to his room, insults ringing in his ears and following him into his nightmares.

Sometimes he snapped that Bucky was going to hell of being a Jew when he was _especially_ drunk, so that was great. Bucky started hating Chase, slowly and surely. Hate that boiled in his stomach and made his glare cut across the room.

But besides that, he was starting to get worried about what Chase would do if Bucky celebrated any of his holidays or celebrations so he celebrated Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur on the down low. His family was one of those twice-a-year-Jews, who only went to the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur so at least disappearing for a day was easy enough. He wasn’t familiar with the synagogue nearby, but he got through it with his head low and minimal questions, stuck close to the wall as everything went on.

He ate apples with honey on Rosh Hashanah, couldn’t make challah, didn’t know if he could buy it anywhere. It made him bitter to not be able to celebrate the way he always had, but he didn’t bring it up.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_L’Shana Tova! Hope the honey you’ve got there is as good as the stuff my grandma gets at the farmers market!_ **

In all honesty, the sweetness in Bucky’s life was probably just Steve. Everything else was bitter, stale, or bland, like ash on his tongue. He refrained from eating on Yom Kippur and went to the synagogue, luckily Chase didn’t notice.

Despite keeping his Jewishness on the down low, Chase continued to be irritated from the moment he woke to the moment he fell asleep, seemingly annoyed that Bucky was in his space, irritated that there was a kid he had to take care of in exchange for the checks, pissed that Bucky got in the way and didn’t listen. He got irritated by nothing, scowled and glared at Bucky all day long. Their conversations, if they had any, were short, clipped, and tense.

Chase occasionally smacks the back of Bucky’s head really hard when he’s zoning out, and it makes Bucky feel dizzy with pain for a minute. If Bucky was in the way, Chase would push him aside, sometimes into a wall to get him to move. Sometimes Bucky lost his balance and fell over hard, sometimes hitting a table or a counter. Bucky just put a pack of frozen peas on his bruises and stayed in his room, feeling exhausted.

He was truthful in his journal. He told it honestly what he felt, what was bruised, and basically detailed how uncomfortable it made him, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the same with Steve. It didn’t matter, really. It was bruises and names, so what? Didn’t matter, it all healed, wasn’t much of anything. Bucky sometimes forgot about them.

Steve was ninety percent of the reason Bucky kept going, if he was being honest. Steve was a rock, only an email away at any time. Checked in with Bucky just about every day. Bucky couldn't afford to pollute their friendship with all this shit. He wanted Steve to think he was happy, wanted to talk about other things, not his stupid problems, so Steve stayed happy. He didn’t want to unload on Steve, so he replied simply with little detail and more interest in Steve's day. Sure, Steve puts out angry justice filled vibes too, but the happy vibes are what Bucky wants to keep going. It was nice to have somebody that cared.

Steve was… a little punk sunshine. He didn’t deserve this burden on his mind. He deserved to go out to protests, fight some asshole in an alley, be a dumbass about that, and try to get vaccinated or something for fuck’s sake. Bucky remembers all the times his parents talked about it, how they were worried that Bucky was gonna get the measles or something, but it didn’t stop either of them. Point is, Steve didn’t need Bucky complaining about his day.

Especially after that fateful Friday afternoon. Bucky usually did his homework first so he could enjoy his weekend and not have to worry about anything. That way he could go out and stay out for as long as possible. Usually, he went to the park, but sometimes he didn’t want people looking at him, so he went to the library and sat in a dark, secluded corner to read.

He had found out a way to prevent pages from being lost when the book closed when he turned pages. Basically, he bent a paperclip in a certain way so a single bent end held the page at the top of the book. Bucky could slide the page out carefully and then if it closed while he did that, the paperclip would have transitioned and he could open to his page easily.

He was typing something up for English single-handedly, which required more glancing at the keys, but he was getting good at it, when Chase shouted from the living room.

“Bring me a beer!” he called out.

Bucky had had a long day, okay? He got a C on a history test, which is a class that he’s actually good in, his lunch got soaked when his water bottle cracked, someone had teased him about his missing arm, they did something that required two arms in gym and the teacher tried to insist he have someone to help him and Bucky wanted the opposite of that, and on top of it all, he’s got a lot of homework.

“Get it yourself!” Bucky calls out aggressively. It isn’t eloquent in the least. It’s not even clever. It’s blunt and annoyed and based off hot annoyance. Chase had working legs and two arms, he could walk across the house to get a bottle of whatever he drank like the world was ending.

There’s a silence and a groan of effort as Chase stands up. He staggers over to the kitchen, appearing with an empty bottle and a lit cigarette in his other hand. “Good for nothing shit,” he growls at Bucky, and as he walks past Bucky, he presses the glowing tip of the cigarette into his back.

The pain is instant and jarring. It’s worse than burning yourself on the stove because it follows him as he jerks away and Bucky scrambles out of his chair, it clattering over as he backs away. The pain feels like it’s digging into his skin and spreading, like he got stung by a wasp that was on fire. It ached and throbbed and Bucky stared incredulously at Chase, eyes wide.

“The fuck are you lookin' at? Get the fuck outta my face,” Chase snapped, waving the bottle and turning to the fridge.

Bucky grabbed his stuff and escaped to his room, locking the door behind him.

He sat on the bed, putting his hand around his other shoulder and feeling around the blistering wound. There was a hole in his shirt now and there were still ashes in the wound, so Bucky took his water bottle and, realizing he doesn’t have a washcloth or anything in his vicinity, grabs a clean shirt, wetting it and trying to clean the burn off, grimacing against the pain as tears sprung to his eyes.

He should get an ice pack, maybe some antibacterial cream, something, run cold water over it, but he doesn’t want to go outside his room right now. Or ever maybe. After a while, he dabs the burn again, breathing against the pain, and throws the shirt in the laundry basket in the corner. It’s fine. It’s just a little burn. It’s hardly bigger than a fingernail. He’s got homework to do.

He notices an email from Steve and opens it up.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey, how was ur day? I got hw and im so bored._ **

Bucky bites his lips and taps the chassis of the computer thoughtfully.

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_My day was ok. got a c on a test and a lotta homework too. Hows ur gma?_ **

* * *

Chase started hurting him more often, he must have realized that Bucky wouldn’t do anything about it. Bucky stayed out more and more, doing his homework at the library, staying after school to help out teachers, finding a place to plant himself and do whatever. He got extra credit or paid for it, they seemed to realize he needed it, so that was a bonus. He spent his meager earnings on stuff like cheap microwave dinners that he could make at school or the library staff room, Neosporin, burn cream, and band-aids.

Bucky kepts emailing Steve. He wakes up tired, curses lowly at the knowledge that he has to climb out of that welcoming darkness and actually do things, and struggles out of bed because at the end of the day he’ll get an email and he’s gotta have something to say. He goes to school, staying as long as he can, goes home, gets a bottle thrown at him, sweeps up the broken glass with a lit cigarette pointed at him like a gun about to go off, does his homework, and checks his email.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey buck, what’s up? I got a new pin for my jacket, it’s a little cat with gold on it sitting in some plants. Its pretty. Oh, and happy Hanukkah!_ **

Bucky stares at the screen, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He slumps over his desk, dragging his hand across his face as the bright white glare from the screen cuts into the dimness of the room. Tears pricked his eyes and he pushes the welling sadness and longing down into his chest, taking two deep breaths before he’s fought his way back to dull apathy.

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_Thanks, and my day was pretty okay. Pin sounds cute. How's the weather in brooklyn? Sucks here. Lotta fuckin snow._ **

* * *

Bucky gets a few more burns, round and darkened into his skin. Chase does it with no warning. Sometimes Bucky didn’t even do anything wrong. Bottles fly, silverware, plates, sometimes. It’s just… tiring. And painful. Chase is just so… angry all the time. It must suck to be so angry that you feel the need to take it out on somebody else. Chase doesn’t seem to have anything but his bottle. It almost makes Bucky pity him.

One day he comes home to unwashed dishes and an angry face. Bucky’s already got himself mentally prepared for a punishment, just about offers his arm to the cig in Chase's sneering lips. He’s got used to that particular pain. They guy’s clearly drunk already and still has a bottle in hand.

“You’re such a fucking disappointment. Can’t fucking do anything right. I told you yesterday to wash those fucking dishes and I come home to this shit? What the fuck!” He motions widely, as if in pissed exasperation, his limbs responding sluggishly, without any grace, and he breaks his bottle while performing it, hitting a wall. Chase scowls at the jagged end and then looks at Bucky.

Bucky freezes, following the way the glass glints in the light. He barely has any time to move or jump back as Chase jabs the glass at him, shoved into his stomach before Bucky can get out anything more than a strangled‘ _No-_!’

The force of it drives the air out of his lungs physically and the sudden sharp jagged pain bursts into awareness. Chase twists it a bit as he starts to yank it out and something snaps off in Bucky’s gut, he can hear the dull cracking noise. There’s a moment where he doesn’t feel anything, too stunned, too wide-eyed as he stares down at his stomach, little bits of green glass sticking out of a bloodied shirt.

Then the agony hits him. He can’t see past the pain, it’s all just light and sound and twisted nausea in his stomach. He feels like he’s been stabbed, and he knows he has, but that’s exactly how he’d describe it if anybody asked. Bucky almost throws up with the pain, legs feeling weak and adrenaline the only think keeping him upright as he watches blood leak down his shirt.

Chase was still pissed and seemed not to realize the extent of his actions as he scowls and flings the glass against the kitchen cabinets, where bloody glass shatters and scatters across the counter top. “Next time you get it fucking done when I fucking say or I’ll start chain smoking and use you as an ashtray! God damn, fucking- stupid fucking kid! Get out of my fucking face!”

Chase storms off, swiping a beer from the fridge and letting it stay wide open as he goes into the living room, leaving Bucky to deal with something like a two-inch long piece of glass somewhere in his stomach. Bucky’s knees go weak and he slides down the wall to the floor, hand hovering over the blood and glass, fingers shaking too hard. He can’t bring himself to put pressure on it, even as he sees blood drop down his shirt and stain. He needs help. He really needs help.

His eyes water as he breathes, carefully standing up and teetering, the pain coming and going with each motion, his vision blurry and too bright. His legs don’t cooperate and his backpack is now way heavier than it was a second ago. He lets it slide off, hand hesitantly pressing into the blood to staunch the flow as he dizzily wobbles back to his room. The pain flares up and he leans against the wall so he doesn’t fall over.

The card. His agent gave him a card. She’d know what to do. He has his computer. His email can call people.

His knees gave out down the hall and he let out a choked moan as the pain and sensation of blood dripping out of him sent a hot flash up his spine. He weakly spits some bile from his lips, not realizing that anything was coming up. The ground wavers in front of his face and he forces himself to breathe. He opened his door with a blood-smeared hand and stumbled in. He panted with effort and opened his computer, wiping his hand on his pants, opening his email, and shakily put the number in, smudging blood all over the keys and mouse pad. He’ll have to clean that up later, it’ll be a bitch and a half to get it out from between the keys

. He sat and waited in his chair as it rang and rang.

_“This is Jen Tennent, Social Services.”_

“Come get me,” Bucky managed. “Please. Come get me.”

_“James? Is that you? What’s wrong?”_

“I need help. Oh, god, there’s so much blood,” he says, looking down at his stomach, seeing it staining the front of his pants and start dripping onto the chair. “Come get me _please_ ,” he wheezed. “Please, it hurts- I- I need help, oh, fuck, please, _ah_ -”

The glass shifted in his gut and the sudden pain almost made him black out. He slipped out of his chair, not feeling the impact with the floor, feeling ill, hot and unfocused. The walls and lights waver around him. He put his hand to the blood-stained shirt and put as much pressure as he could into the wound.

He was out of it for a bit, reality coming and going. At some point he heard noises, maybe something breaking, cracking wood, and then his door was shoved open and there his social agent was, people behind her. He registered them trying to talk to him, maybe saying his name, a hand on his shoulder, and someone shouting, frantic motion that had unfocused colors, time going too quickly around him, but it all felt blurry and cold. He knows that he was moved, but everything stopped at some point and there was peace and quiet.

Bucky sank into it.

* * *

Bucky woke up in a recovery room feeling drugged and groggy. He felt stitches and bandages on his stomach and that told him that he wasn’t dying anymore, not that waking up was any better, apparently. He looked around, vision blurry as the light stabs into his eyes, making them water. He noticed the IV in his arm, the stupid little finger clamp, and the cold air next.

Jen was sitting at his bedside, dozing by the look of it.

Bucky tried to sit up and groaned at the flash of pain that spreads from his stomach. He stopped moving, but the noise snapped Jen out of it. She sat up straight and looked at him immediately. “James, hey, how’re you feeling?” she asked, rubbing her face and trying to make it appear as though she wasn’t asleep. She pushed her hair back and blinked a few times to focus on him.

Bucky peered at her. “What happened?” he rasped. He noticed that his throat was dry and licked his lips.

Jen let him have an ice chip and he sucked on it dutifully.

“I came over after you called me after I called 911,” she explained. “Mr. Williams was drunk and there was broken glass and blood all over the floor. You- you were in bad shape, James. They had to remove a lot of glass from your abdomen.”

“Oh,” Bucky managed dumbly. He doesn’t know what to say, beyond that. “That’s… sounds ‘bout right, I guess. Can- can I get my laptop back? I gotta email my friend or he’s gonna worry.”

“Oh, I’ve, ah, actually got your stuff. The police needed the computer for evidence, but I got it cleaned up and everything after they gave it back. Give me a second.”

She rummaged around through Bucky’s duffel bag and handed his computer over. Bucky opened it and noticed a good handful of worried messages.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey bucky how’s ur day ben goin? Ive got the stomach bug again and it sucks cause I’m barfin up my stomach and I feel awful. Wish you were here to keep me company._ **

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey bucky u didn’t reply yesterday. Did u forget to send of something?_ **

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Bucky, are you okay? Where are you? Please reply._ **

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Bucky, please be okay. You better be okay, yu asshole._ **

That was four days worth of messages. He must have been out for four days. Shit.

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey, Steve, sorry i didn’t reply. I lost my charger and my computer died. I had to buy another one and it took a while to arrive._ **

Jen looked over his shoulder and frowned. “Why are you lying to him?”

“Cuz he doesn’t need to know,” Bucky said through gritted teeth. “It’s _fine_.”

“You got _stabbed_ with a _broken bottle_ ,” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air in pure exasperation.

“It’s… fine,” Bucky hissed back. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

She sighed and rubbed her face tiredly at his response. “Listen, James. There are signs of abuse all over your body. Cigarette burns, bruising. Why didn’t you tell anybody?”

“It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t necessary,” he said, irritated, feeling a bit dizzy as his stomach moved. “I was fine.”

“Okay,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Listen, because you seem adamant to hide this kind of stuff, we’ll be making more frequent visits and check for any signs of abuse. We take this sort of stuff very seriously because sometimes it’s overlooked entirely until it results in death. We… really, really want to avoid that at all costs.”

Bucky pushed his hair out of his face and didn’t meet her eyes. “Okay,” he mumbled.

* * *

After he was adequately healed he was released to his new foster parent. Linsey O’Conner.

Linsey was obviously and immediately a much nicer person. Her house was cleaner, she didn’t drink alcohol or smoke, she owned about, and he wants to be accurate here… six billion plants and she was constantly active, working out, doing paperwork, doing homework or assignments. She seemed to be working on an online degree while working in some IT business.

The new school was nice too. More windows, though. Bucky didn’t know that his last school didn’t have a lot of windows until the new school had a fuck ton of 'em. The sun was in his face nearly constantly and he shied away from it like a vampire, grumbling at it for being bright. It glared down on him and he glared back as much as he could without hurting his eyes.

The people were weird about how he was an amputee, some of them had never seen someone missing a limb up close, but it was another fresh start, even if he felt like a bug under a microscope and avoided everyone to the best of his ability.

Linsey was very insistent on shared responsibility rather than Bucky doing all the chores so everything was split exactly down the middle. He got to water and care for half the plants, he took out the trash every other day, did the dishes every other day, helped clean up on Saturdays and eventually Bucky realized that he didn’t have a foster parent, he had a _god damn roommate_. Her driving him to school each day was just carpooling. Taking turns doing the responsibilities around the house was keeping the shared space clean.

It kind of set him off, realizing that she wouldn’t… have the same responsibilities as a parental guardian. She did his paperwork and stuff, but she wasn’t concerned with his life and he, in turn, wasn’t invested in hers. It was coexistence. It was an odd situation to be in, and Bucky definitely preferred it to Chase, but… he kind of wanted someone to care about him. Ask about his day. Something. Well, he has Steve for that. It’s… weird.

He has nightmares more often with the move, somewhere there’s pain from his arm, some from his stomach, some just dull aches, other blistering marks on his skin that make him jolt awake, stunned. He sometimes forgets where he is when he wakes up, and if he wakes up shouting, he hides under the bed. Linsey never hears him, she sleeps like a log.

Bucky finishes middle school and writes the events of every day into his journal, eventually having to start a new one. Linsey did go out and buy him things, but that was the only ‘parental thing’ she ever really did. They ate dinner together though. Bonding time, or something.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Linsey sounds nice! Do you like the plants? Oh, and Happy Birthday!_ **

Bucky thought about it, looking at the cactus on his desk, right beside his aloe plant, both of which he has given human names and writes back.

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_Thanks. And yeah, actually. IDK, it’s nice to take care of them and see em grow. I got a cactus named bentley and an aloe vera plant i call ashley, so i guess im doin okay or something_ **

* * *

Bucky slowly takes over all plant duties without Linsey’s knowledge. He buys seeds from Home Depot and starts his own little line of seedlings by a mostly barren window. He’s got bamboo that he could spend hours watching grow. Of course, it grows slow so that those hours watching have barely any change, but still. Calming. He thinks it unsettles Linsey how he sits motionless for hours, but he doesn’t care.

It slowly becomes obvious that Linsey has her faults too. Sometimes she vanishes for days, off studying or with friends or one of her… several paramours. Bucky was good at taking care of himself. That was the point. Linsey didn’t consider him her charge, she considered him her roommate. He could be left alone because that's what you do with roommates. You’re not all up in their business, you go out, enjoy stuff, have fun.

So occasionally Bucky kind of runs out of food. Big whoop. He makes do, finds stuff to do. He grows plants and reads and messes around on his computer. Cleans the house. Spins his lucky top. Goes around the house singing along to the music he downloaded to his iPod.

 _“[I don't know why~! I just feel I'm~ better off~ staying in the same room I was born in. I look outside~ and see a whole world~ better off~ without me in it~ trying to transform it. You are out of my mind~ ooh! You aren't seeing my side~ ooh! You waste all this time trying to get to me, but you are out of my mind!” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqem6k_3pZ8)_ He sings, spinning in the living room as his iPod plays on the stereo.

Steve is great. He keeps sending messages and that's just how Bucky likes it.

But sometimes it’s so quiet it burns and he sits on the couch in the dark, wondering just when Linsey would come back. The plants offer no help at all and the noises outside, branches scratching against windows and wind howling. It’s… a lot sometimes, makes him want to sink into the couch cushions and stay there.

It’s June 12th, the anniversary of his parents' death, and he’s more alone than when the event occurred right in front of his eyes. He feels exhausted but is too afraid to sleep, scared the memory of bodies will haunt his nightmares.

Steve continues to be a delight.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Guess who’s 14?! This guy!_ **

Bucky sends back pictures of cakes and firecrackers.

* * *

Bucky’s next relocation occurs because Linsey gets in a car accident. Breaks her leg, has a mild concussion, many lacerations, and bruises all over. She looks a mess. Basically, she isn’t fit to care for him from a hospital room, so Bucky packs his things and moves like a week before he starts High School.

It’s a bummer, and he wouldn’t voice his disappointment, but he felt it nonetheless. He can’t bring any of his plants. He has to pack up all his stuff again and read a different book for summer reading which sucks because he already read the last one. Linsey will be alright. She has a pretty nice lady looking after her in the hospital and who will probably continue to do so when she’s let out. Bucky doesn’t ask questions. He just tells her to heal quickly, gives her a quick hug, and is on his way.

This foster house has like… six other kids in it. The foster parents, Bill and Samantha Barnaby are frazzled but stubborn. Must be Irish, Bucky thinks immediately upon meeting them and seeing how they stubbornly hold out against the kids in their care. They have a big house, a large income, and determination that rivals Steve’s. Bucky wasn’t sure that was possible.

But… it’s crowded, and the kids are real bitter and real mean, real nasty little demon spawn. When the parents aren’t paying attention to them they poke at all the buttons they can on Bucky and each other. They search out every nook and scar and hit it to get a reaction. They’re _malicious_ . They kill the plant Bucky was trying to grow by pouring bleach into the soil. They steal the battery out of his lucky top. They try to steal his computer and it takes nothing short of literally yelling at them to _back the fuck off_ to get them to comply and retreat like a hyena pack, circling and waiting for a new opening.

Bucky doesn't know why they do it, but Steve’s words ring in his ears. ‘Bullies don’t need a reason.’ And in the end, he’s right.

School starts and Bucky is exhausted after the first day. It’s September so he has to find a synagogue for Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur is during the beginning of October, and he’s got to remember that because otherwise the days will blur together and he’ll lose sense of time and miss the days. He’s got homework, he’s got expectations, and the kids spit insults at him every time he goes to the house and soon Bucky is trying to figure out solutions to ease the pressure.

There’s no honey in the house. Samantha is allergic to honey. Bucky eats plain apples and spends a few bucks on challah from a local store. When everyone goes to do their own thing, Bucky collapses in the bed he now has claim over and falls asleep. It’s one in the afternoon. The darkness of his mind is soothing, and when nightmares harbor it, he can always wake up and try again.

He stays after school for help on assignments, he volunteers to help teachers after school, he does his work at the library, and, well, generally avoids everything and everyone he can. This being, he’s at the library when he checks in his email and finds a bone-chilling message from Steve.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Grandma died. Heart attack. They’re putting me into foster care._ **

Grandma Rogers is dead? That sounds like bullshit, Bucky immediately thinks. The idea is incomprehensible. With all her preaching of the body can heal any ailment stuff she pushed onto Steve, it seemed like she’d live to be a thousand, not just eighty whatever. Bucky stares for a long time, coming to terms with the impossible. He kinda feels bad, but he’s more startled by the fact that Grandma Rogers isn’t immortal and that makes him feel a bit worse.

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_Shit, Steve, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?_ **

Amazingly, the email comes back right away.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Yeah, I’m okay. It sucks. And I miss her. But… don’t know, I’m so fucked up after what she did to me that I’m almost thankful. They’re getting me meds so I don’t go into cardiac arrest via heart arrhythmia again and my anemia is getting treated and stuff. I’m gonna get vaccinated. Hearing aid too. I don’t know. It’s just… a lot right now._ **

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_I get it. I’ve got your back, right? Till the end of the line._ **

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Thanks, Buck. I really appreciate it. It’s nice to have you. Miss you like hell though._ **

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_Same here, punk._ **

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Jerk._ **

* * *

Bucky starts getting used to ducking the profane and abusive language of his fellow foster kids. Sometimes, on his bad days, the words cut deep. They make his bones and skin hurt and when they see that they renew their efforts. Some days Bucky goes to bed with foul language ringing in his head and tears in his eyes.

Other days he reacts to them like they’re his name. They don’t have anything on the pain he feels on a regular basis or the nightmares that pollute his sleep.

They don’t get physical, they don’t want any proof of their constant harassment as ‘cripple’ rings in the air and they hold things that require two hands over their heads. Playing video games, instruments, getting dressed quickly, ease of tying shoes. Nothing is safe. If he doesn’t perform to their equal it’s a target.

A few days after Grandma Rogers dies, Bucky gets a message.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey, I got to my foster home. The fosters are weird about food, so that’s whatever. How have you been doing?_ **

Bucky frowns at the food bit and wonders what he’s talking about, but doesn’t poke into it too deeply.

**_gotacouplebucks@****mail.com_ **

**_I’m okay. Miss the hell out of you. Foster house is what it is. Kinda hope I move soon, but whatever for now, right?_ **

He wakes up one day to his hand in a bowl of warm water and wet sheets. He immediately flushes scarlet and bolts to his feet, staring down at the mess and horror, embarrassment, shame, and bone-deep humiliation, feeling red hot and ashamed and like he wants to die.

He shares his room with another boy and the child, the little _monster_ , laughs behind his palm as Bucky shucks off his pajamas as quickly as possible and changes underwear without a second thought. He tries to get ready as he discreetly cleans up his mess, putting his bedding in the washing machine with his soiled pajamas and starting it, wiping at the mattress with a soapy wet washcloth, and even flipping it entirely.

He can’t look anyone in the eye, not for the entire day. He still wants to die and he knows that if anybody mentions it, he will.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Yeah, miss you too buck. Hope everything ends up okay. As soon as we turn 18 or are close by, we gotta team up again, just like old times, right?_ **

It’s still difficult at night, especially because of the odd texture he feels under his sheets.

It’s one of those spreads you put under toddlers who wet the bed, clearly placed there by an adult because the kids don't have the resources to pull that off and he feels worse and worse. He slides off the bed, taking a blanket and pillow with him, and sleeps under the mattress, just marinating in humiliation. He barely even feels mad at the little shits, he’s just upset and wants to leave.

That just makes the kids bolder.

When the fosters go out to get some groceries and such real quick, Bucky suddenly finds himself pinned in the living room, two people holding him down as another grabs his wrist and starts pulling  _hard,_ foot braced against his chest. Someone forces a washcloth into his mouth and holds it there, as a gag as Bucky shouts and struggled, muscles straining. Panic lights up in his chest and his breathing gets harsh as he twists and tried to get away.

“We just wanna make you symmetrical,” one of them laughs, like it’s all such a big game. It feels like they’re really going to rip his other arm off. When his shoulder dislocates with a sickening pop he lets out a strangled scream. The rush of pain is like nothing he’s ever felt before, it’s inside his shoulder with no visible injuries, there’s no blood, there's no slow cold feeling as he bleeds out in the wreckage of a train, or on the floor of his bedroom, he’s just-

Pain-

**_screaming._ **

They back off, surprised, and Bucky writhes and gasps through the hot nauseating feeling ebbing from the area. The only good thing about them dislocating his shoulder is that Bucky knew how to fix it, having seen Steve pop his trick joint back in countless times. He’d even helped once. Problem being, he only had one arm so he had to stumble off to find something to brace his arm against while he popped it back into place and then collapsed at the second wave of pain and the quick relief that followed.

That incident marked the point where he didn’t feel safe sleeping inside, so he took his bag and a blanket and sleeps on the streets. It feels weird, almost like slum tourism or something, but Bucky doesn’t feel safe in that upper-middle-class home. Life on the streets, stopping by the house to pretend like he still lives there by sneaking in, is difficult but safer than staying at the house. He sleeps at the parks around, usually on a bench. Cops come around to get him to scram and he gets used to waking suddenly and bolting with his stuff.

One day, when he’s escaping from cops accusing him of loitering or something he ducks into an alley and crouches behind a dumpster, back pressing into a brick wall, side pressed against the metal of the trash bin. He’s surprised to find another man in the alley with him. He’s got a dirty bag stuffed full of clothes and a crate over a gallon of water.

Well, the alley isn’t too bad, even with company. The dumpster is actually for recycling, so it doesn’t smell, and there's just a little glass on the ground. Well, there’s also a needle over there, but just the one. Bucky takes a sheet of cardboard out of the dumpster and puts it on the ground, sitting and leaning against the building. This place seems as good as any to stay in for a while. Bucky pulls an apple out of his bag and starts to eat it, zoning out as he stares at nothing in particular.

He remembers the other man and glances over, then balancing the apple on his knee to reach into his bag and grab the orange. He holds it out in offering and the man hesitantly takes it.

“Thank you.” His voice is accented, Middle Eastern.

Bucky nods and goes to finish his apple.

“My name is Amir, what is yours?” the man asks.

“Bucky,” he replied.

“You are young to be on the streets, yes?”

Bucky shrugs.

Amir scratches his impressive beard. “I see. You are new to this, yes? You have no home?”

“It’s not safe for me there,” Bucky replies truthfully but isn’t inclined to elaborate.

“Ah. Well, this alley is big, plenty for two, I think.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees.

Amir shows Bucky the tent cities in the area, under overpasses and bridges, one even in the nearby woods. They’re filled with trash and scrap, with poor people in several layers of clothing sleeping or sitting around. It smells rank and there’s a big trash pile that everybody uses for scraps and junk. One or two people were busy with cardboard sheets begging for money or food on the street nearby.

Amir and Bucky manage to finagle a beat up tent and stay in the one close to Bucky’s school and house. The people with signs let him save their spot on the corner as they run into a building to use the bathroom there. He took food from the house and passed it to the people in the tent city, people that can’t remember the last warm meal they had. A couple are drug users, addicts, but not all of them, and those that are seem to realize the problem but feel they can’t stop or don’t know how. It’s kinda sad, but he gets used to watching women and men pick at their skin, get snappish and irritable, vanish for days and come back high.

He can’t… can’t be around them too long. Their mannerisms remind him of Chase sometimes, but he can manage sometimes. Some of them are good people, so he feels okay most of the time.

He does his homework at the library, he showers at the school, he uses various restrooms around the town and gets money thrown at him just as much as disdainful looks. Bucky ends up splitting his cash or food with Amir. He usually shadows Amir when he goes somewhere and covers for him when he prays. People keep trying to walk between him and his sutrah. Bucky urges them around or glares at them until they move.

He learns where he can sleep, where he can hide, who to avoid. He knows to always keep his things secure in his bag, and he where you could get food for free or cheap, including dumpsters. He learns how to recognize dealers or undercover cops. He learns how to snap awake in a moments notice and bolt if the situation calls for it. He learns to take watch during the night, swapping between the people in the tents to make sure troublemakers don’t try anything. Cops too, not always good news. In fact, usually bad news.

He stays on the streets despite winter arriving and getting colder. He just gets more blankets and puts on a couple layers of clothes. He puts a tarp over their tent and Amir’s and fixes the bust zipper with tape and sticky velcro. He wakes whenever he gets too cold and shudders until he gets warm again, adjusting blankets and checking on Amir.

“Happy Hanukkah,” Bucky says with chattering teeth one day, hands against a trashcan fire in the center of the tents and on the shredded, piss-stained couch someone found and dragged over, Amir laughs, throwing his head back. “Anybody got a fuckin’ menora stuck up their ass they’ve been hidin’ from me?”

A pair of women sitting on metal mesh boxes start singing Christmas songs obnoxiously loud, which makes Bucky laugh too.

He figures out how to scale buildings with only one arm to get a safer, higher, place to sleep and avoid cops. He starts to eat less, sharing with Amir more often than not. He gets used to a passive hunger. He barely notices it sometimes.

He keeps most of his notebooks at the house, hidden under the mattress of his bed, but he keeps one on him, recording the day’s events before it gets dark.

He learns how to navigate the streets and how to hide things so they don’t get taken. Bucky finds the way that people pointedly don’t look at him agitating. It doesn't quite hurt, but the idea that they don’t even want to look at him because of his situation is shallow and makes him feel like some trash just left out. He even recognizes what is happening, which makes Bucky feel bitter and makes him want to be left alone.

He noticed people using his laptop as an excuse to not the people in the tent city cash, so Bucky sticks to only using it at the library or school. The librarian there, a Mr. Stan Lee, overall nice guy, always steals from the staff refrigerator and gives Bucky muffins and stuff. He likes to pat Bucky on the back twice, spout out some weird advice that doesn't make too much sence, and wander off. Sometimes it's kinda nice.

Like, "If you can't think of a reply to something, just say something sad sounding. You look pathetic enough to get a lot of pity points. That can help you go far in life, I swear by it." Which is weird, and maybe a little insulting, but not terrible advice.

It’s a few weeks after he starts living on the streets when Steve sends the message that pretty much tells him that his foster parents had been starving and neglecting him and the other foster kids and that the foster dad snapped and tried to kill Steve with a carving knife.

Bucky stares at the computer screen, walks a lap around the library as he processed that whole chunk of _bullshit_ that happened to Bucky’s _best goddamn friend in the whole world,_ and goes back to the computer with a washed face, a less frazzled mind and a lot of curse words.

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_Holy shit steve what the fucking hell? What happened! What did you do?! What the fuck?!_ **

That’s the simplified, censored version.

Steve explains how he got this plan to hide the food he received in the walls and ceiling fan and other places and how it worked up until the point where too many puzzle pieces snapped into place and a CPS agent had to come and check it out and caught them. The dude snapped, stabbed Steve, beat the crap out of him, and then was arrested. Steve added, with pride, that he _bit_ the dude. After he had been _stabbed_.

Bucky can’t even comprehend Steve doing any of that except he can which is a weird notion to have. He says the group was split up and that Steve was with this German guy now.

Steve speaking the truth to him, even though he concealed it since he had arrived, hit something in Bucky and he wanted to tell Steve about the marks on his skin and how he was a roommate to his last foster parent and how the kids here use him like a punching bag, how he’s sleeping on the streets. His fingers tremble to do it, but he just… can’t. He doesn’t know why. He just knows that he could take it, and it wasn’t really a problem. Bucky found solutions. He did new things and figured it out. Just like Steve had. When it’s all resolved, he’d tell Steve. Maybe when they meet up after they turn 18.

Bucky shows up at the house when he knows the fosters are home to keep up the illusion that he lives at the house. He looks at vicious little children with serious issues as they play nice for the adults and can’t really make himself play up his life to the same degree. It’s a huge disconnect. He feels like he’s walked into another dimension. He just lies about volunteer stuff, tells them he sleeps over a friend's house and leaves when he can.

Winter gets colder before anything else and Bucky wakes so cold he can’t feel his hand or feet. It’s snowing steadily outside the tent and the wind is picking up something fierce, lashing violently at the tent, making the plastic nylon material flex and snap against the wind. Bucky tries to shudder warmth back into his limbs but fails. It’s after that that he realized that they need to leave or they’ll freeze to death out here.

He takes his backpack and shakes Amir, who swats at him and mumbles something in something Bucky doesn’t recognize. Something Arabic.

“Amir! Amir, wake up!”

Amir flails awake and glares, saying something Bucky can’t translate.

“It’s too cold outside,” Bucky urges, shaking him, pushing at his shoulders and patting his face. “We need to get somewhere warm or we’re gonna freeze to death.”

“Bah!” Amir yanks his arm away from Steve’s hand and rolls over, ignoring Bucky.

Bucky scowls. “Hey, fuck you too! But if you don’t get your ass up, you’re going to die in this tent!” Bucky pulls him up by his jacket and out of the tent.

“But I am not cold!” Amir protests.

“That’s a bad thing, idiot!” Bucky says. “Hey! Everybody! Wake up! It’s too cold out! We gotta find somewhere to get warm!” He bangs on metal with metal, sending loud clangs through the tent city. People start climbing out of their tents, groaning and shivering.

“Shit, yeah it is. Where’s Thomas? He was on watch tonight, he was supposed to tell us if it was too cold or something,” Jayla says with chattering teeth. Jayla was kicked out by her parents because they caught her kissing a girl. She was a bit older than Bucky.

“I thought Thomas got arrested last week.”

“Yeah, he stole, like, a bunch of shit from a 7-11,” Jackie agreed. Jackie was a heroin addict who was trying to get better but was struggling.

“Lucky son of a fuckin’ bitch,” said Morris, a vet who lost a leg overseas. He was always grumpy and his eyes held something in them Bucky recognized. When Amir was out, Bucky usually sat with Morris in silence. They had an understanding. “He’s got a fuckin’ room, medical care, food. Fucking son of a bitch. Too bad I’m too much of a fuckin’ pussy to try that shit.”

“Ah, shit. C’mon, let’s buddy system and split up. No way any building will take a dozen homeless people. Hey, wait, where’s Hailey?”

“Found her. She’s really cold, but not dead. Come on, Hail, wake up, we’ve got to go.”

“I’ll go with Amir. We’ll meet back up later, yeah?” Bucky said. When agreements sounded and people started leaving, Bucky pushed Amir onward through the snow. Most of the building around them are closed, locked, and empty. A few places don’t let them in at all, citing homeless shelters and saying that they aren’t charities. Nobody is on the streets in this storm, and ice bites into Bucky’s skin.

“I’m tired,” Amir complains.

“So am I,” Bucky responds. “There has to be somewhere and at the very least we’re up and moving.”

At long last, a 24/7 Starbucks appears, a brightly lit beacon on the horizon, and Bucky pushes Amir toward it. The rush of warm air is like a shock to Bucky’s system, like he forgot what being warm was like, but he dutifully stomps snow off his shoes and lets his teeth chatter violently.

The girl at the register straightens from her phone and spots them. Her eyes scan them both, from the holey clothes and double layers of ragged, dirty clothes to their dirty hair and finger less gloves. “Uh, we have a no loitering or vagrancy policy, or whatever it is, so you can’t-” she starts anxiously.

“I’ve got money, we can buy something,” Bucky pleads. “C’mon, it’s fuckin’ freezing out.”

She looks relieved. “What can I get you, gentlemen?”

Bucky gets a large hot chocolate and Amir gets coffee with one sugar. They sit directly under the heater, stripping off wet clothes and even their socks and shoes, taking sips of their drinks. Nobody else really comes in. It’s just them and the nervous girl at the counter.

After a while, Amir starts shaking as his body warms and remarks that everything hurts.

Bucky mimics his earlier protest and adds, “I told you so!” swatting at him to drive the point home.

Bucky skips school that day to stay inside and keep warm, as the weather really doesn’t get any better. They buy another drink each and trudge over to a nearby laundromat to clean and dry their clothes. He and Amir sit in their boxers and shirts, people throwing them looks as they wait. As soon as his hoodies are dry, Bucky pulls them out of the dryer and shucks them on, warmth ebbing into his skin and defrosting his bones. When they’re both ready to go, they walk out into the cold again. They went back to the tent city to check in with six of the twelve, and then, deciding it still too cold, take some stuff from their tent and go to find other temporary lodgings.

They tried for the homeless shelter, but they were full up and the exhausted woman with a bundled up baby on her hip looked like she needed in more than they did, so in the end, the two just scoured the town for a new place to sleep.

They end up in a parking complex for some apartment building, huddled by the elevator because whenever it opened warm air rushed out and heated the stairwell they slept in. Their sleeping bags and blankets helped too.

* * *

Winter turns to spring after March and Bucky celebrates his birthday by buying a cheap cake from Walmart that he splits with Amir. Amir actually gets him a gift. It was a two-liter bottle that had been cut in half, with dirt and a plant inside. Bucky wasn’t exactly sure what kind of plant, but it was pretty to look at.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “When’s your birthday? I wanna be able to return the favor.”

“Ah, late in the summer. August 18th.”

Bucky considered. “A’ight. Guess I’ll have to wait for it. But really, pal, thanks.”

“Easy gift.”

“But a good one,” Bucky countered. “I like it.”

Bucky finished his freshman year with B’s and C’s by some goddamn miracle. A day afterward, he was offered a new foster home by his social service agent. A rich guy, the CEO of Hydra Industries, some real estate tycoon or some shit, was welcoming Bucky into his home, a grand luxurious home with his own room and nice furniture and a better school system.

Bucky said yes without a pause, and would never admit that he thought of Annie as he considered a billionaire taking in a foster kid. It was stupid and he reminded himself so over the course of the entire day.

He stopped by the tent city and explained his situation to everybody. “I’m getting moved,” he explains. “To a new foster house. Hopefully, it’ll be nicer, but I wanted to say goodbye before I leave. Oh, and Amir, I wanted to give you this.” He passed over twenty dollars and a new backpack. “Y’can open it now. Happy early birthday.”

Amir did so and blinked in shock at the snuggie and non-perishable food in it. “Thank you, my friend. These- these will be very useful.”

Bucky gave Amir a grin and a lazy salute. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, you too.”

Bucky packed up his stuff and was quickly moved to a dark looking house.

It was large and imposing, looking more like a prison or an office than a house. He sort of thought it was a warehouse before they actually started going inside. He was quickly given the tour and shown to his room. It was nice and big, already furnished. It had a couch, a bed, a TV system, a desk, and a bookshelf with a couple of novels. It had a kitchen stocked with food, and there was a little coffee table in front of the couch too.

[“ _I think I’m gon~na like it~ I’m sure I’m gon~na like it~ I think I’m gon~na like it here!_ ”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lTTgcTL4Xk) filtered across Bucky’s mind as he sat on the comfortable bed and looked into his own personal bathroom.

He recorded the day's events in his journal and spun his lucky top, listening to the creepy tune.

He couldn't get comfortable on his new bed, so he shoved himself in a corner with blankets and a pillow and slept in his pants and jacket. He fell asleep thinking how swell it was to be taken in and thinking that he’d finally be able to enjoy a foster house. Finally.

* * *

The next day quickly proved him wrong.

Sure, at first it was fine. He was fed really delicious pancakes with strawberries and whip cream by Mr. Peirce’s bodyguard who seemed nice. He was tall, fit, had this fluffy hair and a nice shadow sort of beard. Mr. Peirce was busy with work, so Rumlow was ‘assigned’ to keep an eye on Bucky. He showed him around, pointed out major parts of the huge house, facility really, and even drove Bucky to the park so they could walk around and see the town.

They went back after just before lunch and Rumlow stepped aside to talk with this scientist looking guy. The scientist kept throwing looks at Bucky and Bucky fidgeted with his lucky top and waited for Rumlow to be done.

Rumlow came back and smiled at him. “You mind having some coffee with me? My old man got me in the habit of having coffee before lunch and it’s nice to have a guy to talk with,” he said, clapping Bucky on the shoulder.

“Uh, sure,” Bucky said, thinking that was weird, but not the strangest thing he’d ever heard.

He remembers putting some cream and sugar in his coffee, taking a few sips, and then everything got woozy, his limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated, and he started falling back, a set of strong arms and firm hands catching him before he hit the floor and blacked out.

He had… sensations. He heard words, repeating, monotone and in a language he didn’t know. And pain, in his head so that his brain felt like it was bleeding and blades against his skull and hands touching him. He could feel skin pulling and pain in every part of his being. He felt an ache all the way down to his fingertips. He could feel the cold sensation of drugs flowing into his arm and spreading, maybe some drool sliding out of his unresponsive mouth. His skin felt cold, like he was under an AC unit.

He could feel something wrong inside him, like there was something moving around in his head.

And then he woke up.

He shot up into a sitting position, groaning at the headache as soon as it hit him. He felt dizzy, and his stomach was all over the place. He felt something tugging at his scalp and ran his fingers through his hair, eventually finding a long line of neat stitches. It traveled from above his right temple around his head and swooping to the top, all hidden by his dark hair. He followed it all the way and then back, pausing when he felt something hard against his nail. There was a little… port or something by his temple, small, like a phone charger.

Bucky’s blood went cold and his hands froze. He stumbled out of bed and fell almost immediately, legs tangled in sheets. Upon standing, shakily and woozily, he found his stuff on the desk. His clothes cleaned and dried, neatly folded, his lucky top, necklace, and iPod, with earbuds, besides the clothes.

Upon realizing he was no longer in his own clothes, he looked down and saw that he was dressed in soft black sweats. They weren’t even his. He felt frantic tears prick his eyes in confusion as he desperately tried to figure out what happened. He ran his hand through his hair, pulling at it and realizing that that really hurt with the stitches. He let go and tried to take several calming breaths.

Then he looked outside, and then at the clock. It was late at night, not the early evening anymore.

Bucky fumbled for his laptop and found his email already open, starting as he found messages to Steve that he had never written but looked like they were.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey buck, how’s the new house? Nice for summer to finally be here, right?_ **

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_Yeah, its not too bad. I’ve got a huge room all to myself and stuff too. Hows the german guy?_ **

Bucky stared in horror, ice in his veins. He hadn’t written that. Someone must have looked at his emails and found out how he wrote, emailing in Bucky’s stead. He looked at the current date and realized he had lost an entire week. He scrambled for his journals, finding no entries for the last seven days, no matter how many times he desperately flipped through the papers. Nothing. Not even a date. It was just… blank, like the week never even happened, a gaping hole in his memory.

What had happened to him? Why did he feel like shit? Why did he have stitches in his head and a splitting headache? The questions piled up into a daunting horror story that made his skin crawl.

Okay. Bucky had a lot of shit happen to him. He’s gotten burned and stabbed and had his arm pulled out of its socket, and slept on the streets, but this… this really takes the cake. This is beyond not okay. This is something else entirely. This is a whole realm of confusing and absurd shit and Bucky doesn’t have words for the wrongness he feels all the way to his core, making him feel sick to the bone and in all of his cells. It’s like he wants to throw up but his stomach is empty, his soul is just fucking dry-heaving.

And… there’s no internet. Bucky tries to connect, but it looks like it’s been parentally locked. He can’t contact anyone.

He hesitantly opens the unread email anyway.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hello. Bucky, is it? This is Abraham Erskine, Steven’s foster parent. I’m sorry to say that Steven was arrested today for assault. He punched a neo-Nazi in the park and the police officer there was, unfortunately, quick to act. I’ll keep you updated, but Steven will not be able to reply himself for the time being. He is fine, I will stress, but he is going to juvenile court soon and the lawyers say they see little way to get him out of the assault charges. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I can deliver messages between the two of you, if you wish to._ **

**_-Dr. Erskine._ **

Bucky closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, letting out a uneasy sigh. Missed his chance. Missed his fucking chance. Now he doesn’t have Steve. Whatever happens to him is his alone.

He’s alone.

It makes his eyes water in the dead silent room. “Shit,” he hisses out. The feeling is bone-chilling, makes him feel small and fragile in the big empty room. He hunches over, putting his hand over his face to try to hide tears no one will see. “Shit, fuck.”

That feeling of no control comes back with a vengeance to the point where he feels hopelessness fill his heart to the brim, only the fact that Steve exists and cares about him keeping it from swallowing his soul up. The darkness of the room is crushing him and he reaches over to pull the cord on his desk lamp, forcing it back before it can smother him. He stays there for a few hours, staring at the message and trying to figure out what to do, who to go to if he even can.

The door opens and Rumlow steps in, prompting Bucky to check the time. It’s not quite six in the morning. Rumlow doesn’t look soft anymore, doesn’t look caring or earnest. He’s decked out in a bulletproof vest and has guns strapped to each thigh. He’s got a knife strapped to his calf and some kind of utility belt that probably has ammunition in it. His gaze is calm and apathetic, he's got a sort of unimpressed grimace on his face and crosses his arms.

Bucky stares at him, trying to figure out what is going on.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Rumlow says easily.

“What did you do to me?” Bucky finally manages.

Rumlow grins like it’s a joke when he says, “We made you the new fist of HYDRA.”

Bucky doesn’t know what that means.

“You didn’t try to contact anybody, did you?”

“Couldn’t,” Bucky replied.

“Good. Because if you tell anybody what happened to you, HYDRA will have them silenced, one way or another.” Rumlow shrugs nonchalantly. “That’s just how it is.”

Bucky nods, a lump in his throat preventing him from replying.

* * *

He gets a day of recovery time before they use the Words on him. They walk him through what was done to him, how they implanted a bunch of devices in his head, attached to his brain, wired through it intricately, embedded into his cerebellum, that shut down everything makes him _Bucky_ and rewires all that energy into the device, making it act like a person instead.

Bucky stares at the X-Ray, seeing this big metal… thing covering his cerebral cortex and other parts and bits of his brain with these protrusions and other attachments fanning out. It had a little offshoot to his right temple for the port, little attachments to the inside of his ears that recognized a line of trigger words, and it was also wired into the part of his brain that controlled movement, which just made him feel wrong, like his skin was crawling. Bits of metal fanned out to attach to random parts of his brain, connected by thin wires. Once such part was attached to the language part of his brain, for reasons unknown to Bucky but widely discussed between the scientists.

They did it all in five days. Three days unconscious as Bucky healed, with the help of some temporary healing accelerant they gushed excitedly about.

Bucky stared at them, trying to project ‘ _this is most fucked up thing I’ve ever hear in my life_ ’ at them and get them to understand that this is fucking… horrible. This is criminal, this was disturbing and invasive and just plain fucking weird. This was not consented to, this was a bane on humanity, and it was in his _own fucking head_.

One of the doctors noticed the look and faltered before looking back to his colleagues and managing to ramble some more before petering off and splitting from the group to check some readouts.

The effects of this… device was basically the creation of an artificial person that was waiting for activation at any moment. It’s the most fucked up version of DID or something that Bucky has ever heard of. They put something, _someone_ , inside him he can’t get out unless he wants to die. It’s looking like a pretty good option too, except he couldn’t bear to do that to Steve, rage-filled bitter little pill Steve, his best friend who’s loyal to the end. Till the end of the line. That’s what they always said. Till the end of the line.

Rumlow leans against the table and whistles, impressed. He jerks his head to a little device shown in his neck, a little bright spot in the x-ray. “That’s a tracker. So running away really isn’t going to get you anywhere, you hear me?”

Bucky nods heavily in understanding.

He goes back to his room with a weight on his shoulders he doesn't know how to deal with. He writes it all in his journal, detailing what they told him, and then opens his computer. The internet is back on. He doesn’t even consider telling Steve.

**_gotacoupleofbucks@****mail.com_ **

**_Thanks doc. Can you tell that dumbass I wanna talk to him when he gets out? Do we know how long that will be?_ **

The next day, at breakfast time, Rumlow stares Bucky in the eyes and starts saying something in another language, rough and harsh. Bucky could feel himself slipping away and doesn’t have time to panic before he’s gone.

* * *

Every time he snaps out of it, when the control comes back to him, he’s sore. He aches, moving and walking hurts. He can’t even chew without it hurting so he just drinks the protein shakes that Rumlow puts in front of him mindlessly, feeling too exhausted to do much else. He wakes up with bruises and cuts he doesn’t know how he got, with blisters on his hand and feet.

Sometimes he wakes with his head pounding. Light and sound hurts, like nails scraping a chalkboard. He lies in bed and tries to breathe through it, tears pricking his eyes as he holds his head together. It feels like someone is taking the flat side of a hammer and hitting him with it. He takes four ibuprofen and climbs into bed again, feeling nauseous.

Erskine does give him some good news. Steve is only going to be in juvie for about six weeks because he gave a very rousing and convincing speech to the judge about… well, Nazis being shitheads and deserving punches, but in a much more polite and convincing way. Very patriotic. Bucky approves, amused at the idea.

Bucky loses so much time he has only ten entries written down in an entire three weeks. Ten. Ten instances of him walking up bone sore and recording what injuries he has, what hurts the most, and what day it was. Of course, there was also the three or so headaches he’s woken up with, the ones that make him wonder if his brain is scrambled and trying to fix itself by making it worse.

He can’t tell if whatever has control of him sleeps during that or not, and that’s the worst part. Could that person living in Bucky’s head parade around as Bucky for a week at a time? Is it controlled somehow? Do they have words that reverse whatever it is to give Bucky control back? Or do they just run the guy to the bone and he snaps out of it when he sleeps, sometimes for a day or more?

Rumlow gives the information freely when Bucky brings it up over a breakfast of nutrient shake.

“Actually, it’s kinda both,” he said casually, like he didn’t know words that made Bucky into something he wasn’t every time they saw each other. “See, we do have words that break it down, but it also happens through sleep naturally. We’ve just been trying to cram in training so we keep the Soldier working for hours at end. The actual effects last for about six hours, little less, but it’s clear when you start coming out of it, so we just renew the effect.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Does… my arm get in the way?”

“Actually, no, believe it or not. It just means we can focus on training one side more. Don’t have to even it out or train both at once, except for your legs, but you mostly just run and jump with those, so that ain’t hard.”

“Now climbing,” Rumlow said, with a frank voice, making a motion with his spatula as he was making himself some scrambled eggs, explaining to Bucky how they were training his brainwashed self to be a killing machine like he was discussing the fucking weather. “That’s tricky for the Soldier right now. You got a good arm, but it isn’t strong enough to have you climbing for too long or holding onto a ledge yet. And you have to kind of pull up and let go and really quickly grab a new hold so you don’t fall straight off the wall. It’s not preferable for an actual infiltration experience because not all handholds are gonna be secure so you might just lose your grip and fall off anyway.”

Bucky thought about it. “Huh. Never thought about that.” He bit his lip. “If that was gonna be a problem anyway, why’d you do all this to me? Specifically?”

Rumlow tapped his temple. “A few reasons. One, you’ve got the right kind of brain. We’ve been in your medical records. The train accident? They had MRI’s and all sorts of scans, so we had a good chance of the procedure working and taking hold. It did, too.” Rumlow gave a cold smile. “Two is going to stay a secret, and three, your CPS record hinted that suicidal tendencies might be in your future so if it didn’t work, well, we had an excuse for a body.”

Bucky felt chilled and he shivered against the steel eyes looking at him.

When the shake was gone, Rumlow slid over like a snake. He pushed Bucky's hair out of the way and Bucky fought not to move against the feeling of violation and disgust that follows at the intimate movement. Rumlow leans close to his ear, making Bucky’s nerves spark and an uncomfortable knot form in his gut, and whispers words into his head.

* * *

Bucky wakes up strapped to a table and swallows immediately. It should say something that he’s getting used to waking up like this, it should, but he can’t think past the anxious nerves bouncing around under his skin. He’s been stripped down to a pair of boxers and he feels exposed and his skin burns with mortification. There are machines hovering over him, long needles attached to strange chrome devices. Bucky tries to move a bit, but they really accounted for everything. He can’t even move his head and his skin itches with that realization.

A man leans over him and Bucky tracks him with his eyes. He tries to say something, he’s not even sure what, honestly, but it appears that he’s been gagged and nothing but muffle sounds follow.

“Well hello,” the man says, his round glasses gleaming. He looks ill, his hair is gone. “It is nice to see you finally joining us, Mister Barnes. My name is Dr. Arnim Zola. I’ll be…” he pauses, a wicked grin splitting his lips. “Having some fun with you today.”

Bucky feels cold and he looks at the needles and metal hovering over him.

Zola hums neutrally, following his sight line. “Ah, yes. My trinkets. I’ll be testing them out today, such excitement!” Zola looks back down at him, looking amused. “What? Not going to say anything, Mister Barnes?”

What an asshole, Bucky thinks.

“Oh, I hope to see great things achieved with you.” Zola sighs. “It’s a shame I won’t be here long enough to see what becomes of you.” Zola takes something off a tray, a small needle filled with a clear fluid. “I’m not as handsome as I was in my youth, it’s true, but most of this-” he motions to his face. “Chemotherapy that isn’t working. But it doesn’t matter. I have plans. But what you should get out of this, Mister Barnes, is that I’ve got not much left to lose.”

Zola looks into Bucky’s eyes. “It’s made me take such fun risks as of late. Yesterday, I smoked a pack of cigarettes. It’s not like lung cancer will kill me before pancreatic cancer does. Today,” Armin trails off. “I will be injecting you with a serum that has, so far, killed every rat, cat, dog, and rabbit I’ve injected it into.”

Terror coursed through Bucky and he feels hot tears from in the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t want to die. He- he’s scared shitless and he’s starting to panic for real now.

“Oh don’t be a baby,” Zola childs, patting his cheek. “Half of them died in almost no pain. The other half suffered from organ failure for several hours before drowning in their own blood as their skin fell off. If it does fail. I am most confident in this one, I’ve incorporated research from a man I hate to admit is a much better biochemist than I am. Statistically, you’ve got a decent chance at going peacefully.”

Zola hums and twirls the syringe in his fingers. “You won’t be needing this,” he tears Bucky’s necklace off his throat, the metal biting into his skin before snapping. Zola drops it on the side table with a look of mild disgust. “Now, what I have here is an immune system repressor. I don’t want your body rejecting and fighting my serum.”

Zola pushes the needle into his arm haphazardly and Bucky swears he can feel the cool liquid pushed into his vein and he shudders, closing his eyes and letting the water that pooled there flow down his cheeks. It doesn’t hurt much, not after all Bucky’s been through, a tiny needle is like a poke, it’s nothing, but what it means, the start of the experiments, whatever Zola has in store for him, it scares him and he tries to even though his gasping breaths.

“I’ll give that about fifteen minutes to work,” Zola says in disinterest. He doesn’t leave though, he just sets a timer on his watch and folds his hands together, watching Bucky intently.

“I bet you’re wondering why they’re letting me play with you like this,” Zola comments. “The only successful candidate for the brain interfacing technology, the only survivor. Well, the answer is, since you have proved that it works, and presented the kind of mind we need for it to work, we don’t need any more trials. As we speak, five other candidates are going into surgery.”

Zola gives a cold satisfied smile. “You, Mister Barnes, are replaceable. If this works, you will be invaluable, of course, but for now, you are no more important to anybody than a blue-collar worker is to a CEO.” Zola laughs at his own little joke. “Even after that, we’ll be having fun with you so we can see the basis of our other subjects. By seeing how you react, we’ll already know how they’ll react. Do you see, Mister Barnes? Do you know what that makes you?”

A lab rat. Disposable.

It hurts to realize that. It hurts to hear that after all that pain and agony and mind-numbing horror, he doesn’t even matter, but Bucky can’t really pinpoint what else he wanted Zola to say. He wishes that Zola didn’t say anything. He wishes that fear that had been quaking under his skin could go away, but it doesn’t.

Zola hums again and takes something off the table, a small sharp scalpel. Bucky watches it spin in the air, guided by Zola’s fingers. “Ooh, what I will do to you, Mister Barnes. I’m glad I thought to gag you. I’d hate to have to get earmuffs halfway through my experiments from the screams I’ll be pulling out of you.”

Bucky was now hyperventilating, making the world feel numb and fuzzy and too light around him.

Zola leaned over and pressed down on his chest hard, hard enough that all the air he sucked in was let out and it was a challenge to breathe in again, though manageable. After a minute, Zola let go and Bucky’s breathing returned to a better semblance of normal.

Zola then took the scalpel and looked at a file he had beside him. “Experiment #32557038. We don’t actually follow a numbering scheme. Do you have any idea how obvious that would be? Oh, the first attempt, number one? It would get boring, you could easily recognize what numbers belonged to which project. We assign a random serial number to each test subject and experiment. I like to make up stories with each number that relates to my test subjects. Hm. Three.” Zola looks at him. “Three functioning limbs.”

Rude, Bucky thinks nonsensically and lets out a muffled shout when the number is carved into the side of his stomach. The blade doesn’t go deep, Zola isn’t trying to disembowel him, he just wants to mark him like livestock.

“Two. Well, there are two of us in this room. Five.” Zola considers, tapping the bloody scalpel against Bucky’s hipbone, letting a drop of blood flow down his side. “Your surgery and recovery lasted five days. Another five, the number of minutes it took you to succumb to the drugs put in your drink beforehand. Seven. I’m honestly at a loss. Do you have a suggestion?”

Bucky can’t answer, he just watches Zola’s face.

“Well, seven for lucky number seven, I suppose. You’ll be needing that luck.” The number sets into his skin, blood oozing down his side. “Zero. Well, generally speaking, how much you’re worth, a zero-sum,” Zola laughs and carves the number, completing it with a slash across the inside. “Three. Again, I’m having trouble coming up with something! I suppose, three for the Third Reich.”

Bucky hates every second of that number carved into his skin. He’s so mad he doesn’t even feel the pain. He’s furious and it makes his blood pound at the injustice of it. He wants to beat the shit out of Zola, that fucking Nazi, spit on him, break his glasses and make him eat the shattered glass and metal fragments. He hopes the cancer hurts as it kills Zola, and he struggles against the binds, screwing up Zola’s work.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Zola childs, pressing his hand firmly against the wounds and making them burn tenfold. Bucky stops.

“I do love a good dash of irony,” Zola admits. “And finally, eight. Eight numbers in this serial.” Zola puts his finishing touches on the number and pulls a mirror over, reflecting it just right so Bucky can see the fucking perfect numbers on his side. They’re expertly done, perfectly professional except for the fucked up three near the end. It looks like a child tried to recreate a five combined with a seven, jagged and crooked and a bit too big. Bucky thinks that one number looks good simply because he fucked it up. If that number had been perfect too, he would have cut it off himself. He still might, if he gets out of this alive.

Zola’s watch beeps and his nasty grin returns.

Bucky's anger is swiftly overrun by terror as Zola pulls a machine over and places it over Bucky’s left shoulder, three ominous needles aimed at the flesh there.

“Let us begin.”

The three needles hurt, but the fire that swims into his veins is so powerful his vision white out. It starts like burning needles under his skin, itching and digging around, squirming like worms in the mud. He can feel himself screaming, his vocal cords going raw and ragged. The pain is inside of him, his skin itches and the sensation of his muscles seizing and being minced into shreds _hurts_ , it’s agony. After the needles under his skin ease, they turn into an angry mix of fire and ice trying to push up out of his skin, like magma and glaciers are fighting for dominance and if Bucky’s skin and organs are burned, frozen, cracked, ripped apart, or cut up into minced meat, so be it.

He wants to claw his own skin open and bleed out the horrible liquid Zola put in and then die in that pool of blood. His shoulder feels like it’s dissolving, not even having it crushed in mounds of metal hurt this much. He wants to claw at his face, his neck, his stomach, and bleed. He tastes copper in his throat and wants to drown in it like how Zola said his other attempts did. Bucky can’t feel or see anything but the pain and anguish.

His head is throbbing with every heartbeat, every neuron, every cell, every membrane feels like it’s pounding, his skull feels like it’s cracking under the pressure of a cement mixer. He can feel himself trying to move it, trying to slam his head against the table to relieve some pressure, to knock himself out, to kill himself so he could stop feeling agony in his body, pain riddling his being like hundreds of shards of glass slowly being pushed into his skin, bleeding him dry.

At some point, when he can’t feel himself screaming, can’t hear anything over a roar in his ears, he forgets his name.

Colors flash and spark over him like firecrackers pressed against his skin, the hot tears that flow down his face feel like they’re being burnt there and makes it hurt worse. Everything that touches his body hurts, the smooth expanse of the table pressed the pain into any expense of skin it touched the straps keeping him restrained are hot leather pieces that rub and scratch and cut into his skin like knives, the needles still in his shoulder are moving under his skin like hungry leeches, the blood pouring down his side and soaking the back of his boxers is magma burning into him.

It takes him a long while to realize that the pain stopped at some point.

He can sort of think past the pain and its grip on his bones, skin, organs, ligaments and the sinew in his body, but only enough to let himself cry. He sobs and more tears follow. He begs a god he’s not sure he believes in anymore to save him, he cries for his mother, his father, for anybody to help. His muscles, sore from everything tensing up as he tries to curl in on himself. He sucks in big breaths and cries them out, choking on spit and blood in his throat.

Zola appears, grinning in glee. He touches Bucky, hands sliding over his skin and sending repulsed shivers across his body, hair standing on end. “Marvelous. It _worked_ .” He touches where he carved numbers into Bucky’s skin and laughs. “Healed! With such wonderful _scaring_.”

Bucky doesn’t want to see. He closes his eyes. Zola rips out the gag and Bucky coughs again, startled, his eyes flying open, working his mouth as split and blood slid between his lips. He swallows the copper flavor down and stares at Zola, too frightened and distressed to say anything, tears still pouring down his cheeks in hot streams.

“How do you feel?”

“I don't want this. Just fucking kill me,” Bucky begs as he breathes through choked sobs. “I don’t want this.”

“Oh, but I can’t!” Zola says cheerfully. “I have so many more things I want to do now that my serum works!”

Bucky sobs again and coughs on some blood and spit.

“There were things I didn’t expect as the serum took hold, the seizure mostly, but it only lasted five minutes and the serum only took an hour to settle.”

It felt like days. It felt like minutes. Bucky doesn’t know anymore. Time works funny when you’re in pain. Bucky just wants to find somewhere dark without anybody there to curl up and die. He hyperventilates as he cries and the noise annoys Zola. He buckles the gag back on and Bucky passes out.

* * *

The next day, Bucky sits in a chair in a hoodie and sweatpants and socks and stares out the window, watching people in the street below. Yesterday he was being tortured and experimented on. Now he’s sitting in a chair people watching. The total difference between the situations is something he can’t grasp and before long he realizes that his eyes hurt with being open for so long and forces himself to start blinking again.

He has some new scars under his shirt. All with medical precision. Healed. He doesn’t understand. But he kind of does. Some sort of injection that can boost healing to impossible speeds, something that made him stronger and faster. Zola must have had fun with him after he passed out. Sounds like something out of a movie.

Bucky blinks his eyes again.

He doesn’t want to die anymore. Well, he does, but he doesn’t want anybody to kill him, which feels weird. More like he doesn’t mind if something suddenly kills him. He’s forgotten how to be scared of death.

“Death is a bitch,” Bucky says aloud, trying to put some emotion into himself, injustice, anger, fear, sadness, anything. “And you can fuckin’ quote me on that. Death is _my_ bitch.”

Bucky can’t feel anything.

“That bitch doesn’t get to take everything from me and then deny me her sweet fuckin’ embrace. Now I’m gonna play hard to get because she’s being such a fickle fuck.”

Bucky thinks he feels better, but he probably doesn’t in reality.

He remembers to blink. His stomach growled and he mechanically gets up and goes to the kitchen. On the counter top is his necklace, the chain still broken. He stares at it for a minute before picking it up. He struggles to tie the thin chain back together before pulling it over his head. He eats the entirety of the fruit basket on the counter top, unwilling and unable to actually try to make some food and then goes back to bed.

The embrace of way too many blankets is perfect. He wraps them around his body, a pillow between his knees, and peering out of the covers at the bedside table, his laptop resting on it. He untangles his arm and pulls the computer over, searching up The Lego Movie on megashare before settling with putlocker. So what, he’s illegally watching movies, or whatever. What are they gonna do, arrest him?

As the movie starts, he pulls his arm back in and rests, eyes at half mast as he barely follows the story line.

* * *

Bucky is pretty certain that the Soldier met Mr. Pierce at some point, but the first time Bucky actually met the man was a month after being turned into what he is now. He didn’t wake up sore anymore, not since Zola, but he did wake up with more scars. He had started a list of his them in his notebook. Most of them have surgical precision, stitched up and then stitches removed, but the ones from training never look neat. They’re bigger, deeper, longer, messier, ragged, they ache sometimes.

They were in one of the medical rooms, the techs checking the implant for any wear through monitors and scanning equipment and looked interested by what they saw. Bucky was strapped into a chair, feet, ankles, knees, thighs, stomach, chest, arms, elbows, wrists, hands, and his head all tightly kept against the chair. It was a bit difficult to even breath and he had these scanning things pressed hard into his temple, a damn plug shoved into the port in his head.

They were also electrocuting him, he almost forgot in his interest with Mr. Pierce, his mind was dizzy and unfocused from the voltage. They were testing the device to see if any form of electrocution would cause it harm, in case Bucky had a run in with a taser or something. As it seemed, and to his despair, they were finding good results as the upped the voltage. The only good thing he had going for him was a bite guard and a twenty-second warning. He hadn’t pissed himself yet and they seemed pleased. Guess everything was hunky fucking dory.

“Good news, Rumlow,” Mr. Pierce said, walking in like he owned the place, which, well, he did. “The Red Room said that they’d take him.”

Rumlow looked over. “They did? A boy? Jeez, I bet that took some convincing.”

“Pocket change in the grand scheme of things,” Mr. Pierce dismisses. “Well look at you,” Mr. Pierce marvels, staring at Bucky.

Bucky would admit his physique certainly benefited from… the serum and the training. He was stronger, faster, more defined, more balanced. Despite that, having Peirce’s eyes on him made his skin crawl. He didn’t know what the look meant. They already took his bodily autonomy from him. Did that look signify something greater or was it just Peirce’s ‘ _a job well done_ ’ look? Had something already happened and he’d never remember it? His skin felt dirty at the knowledge of what they could have made him do, what could have been done to him while they have complete control.

He wants to throw up and he barely manages to keep tears from falling, only stopping it by telling himself if it had, he’d never remember it. If it hadn't, he’d never remember it. The perfect Schrodinger's Cat.

“Well that’s good,” Rumlow said and Bucky had forgotten what they were talking about.

“Exactly my thoughts, Rumlow. You’ll take him over tomorrow. Let him eat a big breakfast. He’s going to need it. They’ll do the hard work, you’re just charge of overseeing him and administering the words when he shakes it off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pierce was checking in with the scientists and then he was suddenly gone and Bucky was panting against the residual shakes of electricity, the muscles in his stomach tensing uncomfortably. Bucky was left wondering when some things had moved and why people had traded positions. He spat out his bite guard. “What just happened?” he slurred, and spit dribbled out of his mouth. He wished he could wipe it away, but he could barely move, so it just slid down his chin.

A tech came to stand in front of him, looking down, hovering over him. “Can you repeat the number sequence I just told you?”

“The what?”

The tech made a face, a fascinated one, and it made Bucky’s stomach sink into his feet. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Mr. Peirce was talking to one of the doctors,” he whispered. “How- how long ago was that?”

“Three hours,” the tech grinned. “What a brilliant and unforeseen variable!” He turned to his colleagues. “This is perfect for cover-ups! If he can’t remember what he did, interrogations would be fruitless!”

“It works for him, but does it get rid of the memory on his drives?” another asked, not impressed.

“I think so! The right voltage fries memories spanning from three hours ago. They get corrupted and then deleted with the failsafe installed. Higher voltage might cover-up longer missions.”

“Of it might kill him and fry the tech,” another countered. “Does the electrocution kill neurons or just erase memory? Prolonged electrocution, if it kills brain cells, would make the Asset useless.”

“Can we do a brain cell count to compare between sessions, or compare past and future scans?”

“Do we have the technology to do that?”

Bucky shuddered and grimaced at the feeling of the connection unit still in his _fucking head_. It didn’t hurt, but it was really unsettling to be attached to something, to feel the plug slide into his head like how it shouldn't be able to because he had a skull in the way. Then he noticed the wetness in his pants and he flushed bright red, feeling his cheeks and body heat up in a reaction, felt shame and embarrassment well up. It seems they found the right voltage, he thinks in mortification. He wanted to die, mostly in horror. The only good thing is that those stupid scientists didn’t seem to notice, too up their own asses.

Small fucking mercies.

* * *

When Bucky wakes up the next morning, Rumlow is already looming over him, strong arms blocking him in and making Bucky feel small and helpless so caught off guard. Rumlow’s voice was deep with the Russian words and Bucky tries not to listen, tries to cover his ears with his hands, but he’s only got the one. Rumlow presses his left arm into Bucky’s chest to keep him down and pins his wrist to the bed with the other as he speaks.

The next time he starts shaking it off, like cobwebs over his head, who knows how long has passed, he feels a thin, callused hand on his wrist.

Bucky looked over, seeing a beautiful girl with red hair and pale skin flaked with a few freckles over her cheekbones, barely visible. She grinned and said with a dramatically hushed voice, “Come with me if you want to live.”

She dragged him away and pulled in into a room in under twenty seconds. He doesn’t know where Rumlow is, but he clearly didn’t spot anything unusual, because he wasn't hauling ass after them. The girl sat him on a comfortable and worn couch. He looked around, confused by the brightness of the room and the posters. It was… a lot to look at. Stuff jammed all over the place, enough to make a house out of the cavernous space.

The room looked lived in, like, really lived in. Like it was tailored to fit the person who existed in it and pamper them by providing all the comforts anyone could need. A mini-fridge, a comfortable looking bed, a desk. There was marker all over the walls, and lights and a TV and a cool stereo system and guns and stuff hung on the wall in various places. The window was mostly boarded up and has a poster of Justin Bieber with throwing knives sticking out of his face.

“So,” the red-headed girl said. “I’m Natasha. You’re going to be my friend now.”

That… really wasn’t what he was expecting out of this. Bucky blinked at her, feeling unsteady. “Okay,” is what he settled on. “My friends call me Bucky,” he added.

“Bucky it is,” she replied and stared at him for a while, but not right at his eyes, mostly at his head. Bucky stared back. “I have only one friend, but we met in a different way. I don’t know what comes next now,” she reported.

“I- um. I don’t know, we could, uh, play video games,” Bucky tried, and then grimaced. “Wait, no- I can’t play anything with one arm.”

“I-” she says with an air of grandeur. “Have a Wii.”

Bucky considers that. “That might work.”

Natasha takes a few moments to set up a video game, Mario Party 8 and hands him a remote. Bucky sits back and plays for a little while, not really sure if what was happening was real, feeling confused and like reality could drop away in a second. “So… what’s this place?”

“This is the Red Room,” Natasha explained. “It’s a Russian KGB sleeper cell. They train female assassins to serve the Russian government.”

Bucky stared at her. This girl in front of him has probably killed people and that thought is so surreal. “And what about me?”

“You’re a special case. Your organization is paying for my mentors to train you as well, despite the fact that you’re a boy,” she reported.

Bucky slumped back in his seat. He should have known. It sort of made sense. He, of course, he didn’t like that, who the hell would? But he just felt resigned. Bucky looked back at her, really looked at her. There were a few things about her, how she spoke, how she reacted to things, her blank eyes. “Do you like what they’re making you out to be?”

She blinks slowly. “No.” She doesn’t elaborate, but when her eyes actually meet his, they’re full of a certain brand of emotion Bucky knows intimately and Bucky understands.

“Yeah…” Bucky paused, considering her words. “So why are you still here?”

“If I leave, they’ll track me down and execute me,” Natasha replied promptly. “They hate me enough that they’d see it as an excuse.”

“They hate you?” Bucky says, confused. “Why would they keep you around then?”

“Because I’m the _best_ they have.” She says it with such malice that Bucky doesn’t doubt it. She's like a knife, sharp, poised, precise, cold. “They don’t like how I- I’m a person. They try to make me a shape they can mold into anything that suits them, but I don’t budge, and they don’t like that.”

“Well,” Bucky said slowly, pausing before he continued. “We can be people together. Right?”

Natasha looks at him again and nods once, firmly. Bucky gives her a smile, and it feels weak and brittle on his face, like he forgot how to smile.

Natasha, it turns out, is a lot of fun. She has awesome taste in music and cool props for singing along to the music. She’s so… fancy, yet not. She’s got energy and this specific take-no-shit attitude for miles and is one hell of a singer, a good set of pipes. They talk and rock out and dress up and dance for ages.

It feels good. Bucky doesn’t feel like he’s a step away from being locking into his own body to wake up in an unfamiliar place at an unfamiliar time.

But it feels like no time at all before it comes to an end as they shout out the lyrics to ['I Don’t Care.'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Alh6iIvVN9o) Bucky’s wearing a feather boa and a fedora, singing into a comb with little care and the door opens with a bang. Natasha whirls around, pointing a gun at the door like she wasn’t even dancing in the first place, just waiting for arrivals to come, and Bucky cut off halfway through a word, smile dropping off his face like it was made of lead.

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova!” a woman shouts over the music, and Natasha lowers it with a remote casually, keeping the gun up. Rumlow is standing behind the woman, looking around with wide eyes at the room.

“Yeah, what?” Natasha says, putting her glasses up on her head.

“James, we’re leaving,” Rumlow says, catching his gaze.

“Rumlow-” Bucky started, wanting to ask for more time or something, he isn’t even sure.

“Now.” His tone brooked no argument, icy and harsh, and Bucky bets he’s got a nice list in Russian waiting if Bucky refuses.

Bucky starts shucking off Natasha’s things, dropping them on the bed and feeling weight settle on his shoulders again and Natasha frowns. “Hey, dude-bro.”

Rumlow scowls at her.

“Don’t you think it would be easier to get Bucky places if he wanted to go? If you keep coming here and let us mess around after training, I bet he’ll be less depressed about having to do shit while brainwashed,” she offers. “Might even come willingly.”

Bucky looks at her, because that ain’t really true, but she had a sort of point there, and then at Rumlow who’s crossed his arms and is scratching at his stubble considerately. There wasn’t a lot of resisting Bucky could do realistically, he can’t actually block out the words or fight his way out of the black spot in his mind, but clearly Rumlow isn’t happy with the transition.

“James, that true?”

Bucky looks at Natasha, who stares at him. He races to try to figure out what to say. “Can- can’t I just have this one thing? If nothing else?” he manages. “Please. I don’t-” he falters, his voice cracking and stops talking.

Rumlow watches him and then sighs. “Fine. Fine, whatever, just get your ass to the car.”

Bucky isn’t actually sure where the car is, so he follows Rumlow out, catching Rumlow shooting daggers at Nat.

* * *

Being able to hang out with Natasha eases the darkness that hangs over his head like an anvil. It’s nice to be able to talk to someone about this stuff, someone who understands the abuse and inability to escape the reality they’re put in, the world of child soldiers and pain and brutal training and blood that could be their own or that of innocent people. She also doesn’t act weird about his missing arm. She just... acknowledges it and moves past it, making the tiny but meaningful changes to what she does.

For example, they play Twister. She does not give him any ‘left-hand blank’ commands, and, when they finish with the game, she paints his toenails.

“Have you seen the new Annie?” Bucky says conversationally. He had. It was really good and he liked the soundtrack, how they made it more modern, more… more relatable, more now, more relevant.

[ _“It’s the hard knock life, for us,”_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UwJF0ioUeM)Natasha mumbles.[ _“It’s the hard knock life~ for us! No one cares for you a bit~ when you’re a foster kid! It’s a hard knock life!”_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UwJF0ioUeM)

“That’s actually my favorite song,” Bucky mentions.

“I actually went to the theater with my friend Sam to see it,” she adds. “It was good.”

Sam. Bucky wonders who this mysterious other friend is. Someone who clearly knows about the grenade launcher on the wall and the guns hidden in every crevice. This other kid clearly understands and decided to remain friends with someone he knew had probably killed another human being on orders. It made Bucky hope Sam would be his friend too.

It was maybe a little stupid, that bit of desperation, but he couldn’t help shake the idea of someone on the outside, someone safe, who cared for people who were trapped in shitty situations and didn’t make it worse.

“I like the original Dumb Dog too. I don’t know, I just feel like Hard Knock Life fits, well, our lives the best,” Bucky trails off. Didn’t it though? Jesus. Everything. The expectations, the situation, the words that revealed the truth of their lives in every line.

“I get that,” Natasha said, backing off to let his nails dry. They’re light blue at the moment, the color of the sky. “I’ll buy it so we can watch it here,” she adds. “They give us a twenty every week.”

“That explains-” Bucky gestured with his hand. “Your room.” She clearly had to buy this all herself, so it made sense that she got some sort of allowance.

“Yeah. I think the other girls stock it up for when they graduate,” Natasha adds. “I steal from them sometimes.”

“Graduate?” Bucky wasn’t familiar with what that meant in a place like this. It doesn’t really seem like the kind of thing you leave at all. Sure, sleeper cell, they leave as spies ready to report to the KGB, but like… other than that.

“Yeah. When they turn twenty and get the surgery, have to pass a skills assessment, and then they’re let loose on the world. Taking assassination jobs, spying for the KGB, government infiltration.”

Bucky considered and understood most of that except… “Surgery?”

“We’re not supposed to have kids,” Natasha explained.

“Jesus Christ. That sucks.” They just… do whatever to the girls' uterus or ovaries and send them on their way? What happens if they get pregnant before that? Well, based on what Natasha told him, nobody else is even friends with a boy, so maybe the chance of that happening is actually nonexistent.

There’s a strange pause between them, and they both know there are no more words to be said on the subject, so Bucky tries to fish for a new one. “Hey, your last name is Romanova, right?”

“Yeah,” she confirms, shaking the yellow nail polish and focusing back on his feet.

“Is that Russian?”

“Yep,” she says. “The Red Room is a Russian organization. It would be weird if we were all American.

“Oh,” Bucky says, feeling a bit stupid. “Well, anyway, I think I know Russian, but I can’t tell,” he says. “They… taught me? Or downloaded it?” He’s just had… a greater understanding of some of the things spoke. He’ll recognize words and then wonder why he knows what they mean. Like he’ll hear gibberish and something about it will be familiar and then his mental voice goes ‘cool, I like plums too’ and Bucky is like ‘what’ and then the mental voice is like ‘what?’ It’s a mess.

“Oh, that’s fun,” she says. “We’re gonna turn you into a real Red, I’m guessing.”

“My communist agenda is nobody’s business but my own,” Bucky says immediately and Natasha laughs. It’s a delightful sound, like a little burst of sunlight. Bucky likes it. Makes him feel a bit warmer.

“Same,” she says.

Bucky chuckles and then is silent for a second. “I mean, communism could work, but only in a society with no money. And where people weren't greedy as shit. Like, I got it all figured out in my head. Basically, you have a working class that gets assigned jobs based on their skill sets _and_ personal preferences and you’ve got a committee of experts in all the fields of work that manage that shit. Their job is to manage that shit. Nobody gets paid though, only provided a house. Like, nice apartments, kind of houses. Of course, the size is based on how many family members you have so there are different buildings with certain amounts of rooms, right?”

“I’m into this, go on,” she confirms, still working.

“Right. So, school is free but they pay more attention to your skills and interests so they can put you in certain classes to kinda groom you for a job. By the time you graduate, you’ve got a career and all the knowledge you need to begin. You learn more on the job, but yeah. Oh, and people can put in requests for new jobs after a certain amount of time, so they don’t get mad stuck doing the same thing. And there are research teams too, of course, because they wouldn’t be all knowing.”

“What people work for is their homes, kinda. See you gotta contribute to get back, right? But of course, you gotta consider the disabled, mentally and otherwise. People who are mentally disabled can still do things, but if they can’t, they’re still respected and cared for by people who have the job to take care of those people. Compassionate types, you know? And a lot of people who are physically disabled can do stuff and if they physically can’t they can probably have assistants or assistive technology provided by the research teams, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not perfect, but it sounds efficient at least,” Natasha said. She finishes yellow suns on his toes and grabs some black nail polish from her line up.

“So there are elections, sort of, where the people put in suggestions but the council makes the final decision based off how suited for the job each candidate is,” Bucky says. “Because people are fucking stupid and make bad decisions all the time.”

“Amen.”

“So like the council is made of like, people who are experts in a subject, like agriculture manages the crops and farms and stuff, and the economist keeps an eye on things economically and so on and so forth and these people talk to each other all the time. If the food and wellness expert sees a rise in some vitamin deficiency, they’ll tell the guy managing food production and they’ll work it out, right?”

“Nice.”

“Like, and they all work for the betterment of the human race,” Bucky finishes. “Or, I don’t know, in practice, it might be more complicated than that, but I think I have some basics.

“It’s a solid plan,” Natasha agrees. “Too bad people suck.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah.”

Natasha starts on his toes again. “Hey, do you know how to skateboard or anything?”

Bucky was thrown by the non-sequitur. “I, uh, can, but I don’t have a board and that was before I lost my arm, so I don’t know-”

“How’d you lose your arm anyway?”

It used to bother him more, talking about it, but now it just seems distant and meaningless facing all the other bullshit of his life. “Got fuckin’ crunched in a train accident.”

“Dude.”

“It’s actually kinda funny now. Along with all sorts of lacerations and metal embedded in my arm, my upper arm was broken backward, my elbow was shattered, my radius and ulna were broken twice, backward and forwards, like a fuckin’ staircase, my wrist was fine, and my hand was mostly mangled. I’m pretty sure my thumb was torn off, metal went through my palm, almost fully severed, and that all sounds gross, but here’s the funny part. All my fingers but one were pushed down into my palm."

“No,” Natasha said, stunned.

“That’s right, I was flipping off everybody with my fucked up mangle arm. It sucked to lose it, but now everything sucks, so I’m gonna find what little joy I can in the last hour I had that stupid arm. I was the one guy who flipped everybody off.”

“That’s incredible,” Natasha said.

“God damn right,” Bucky agrees. “Well, I mean, it was in Italy, so like, nobody actually understood that was what was up, but I heard about it after.”

Natasha continues working on his nails. “So, up for skating next time? You can use my board,” she offers. “I’ll invite my friend. He’ll like you. And you’ll like him. He is… like a sunflower. Very bright, open.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees.

“And… done. You like them?” Natasha climbed up to sit next to Bucky, pressing her side into his and then throwing her arm around his shoulders. He… it had been a while since anyone had touched him so casually, he could feel the pressure on his skin and it made him feel a bit better, a bit dizzy on it.

Bucky sits up, not dislodging her in the least, and wiggles his toes. Adorable little crooked suns with cool guy sunglasses on them. “I love ‘em.”

* * *

Later, when Zola is forcing him to hold his fingers against a chunk of dry ice, covered with a thin piece of something that prevents his skin from freezing to it, but doing nothing to ease the cold, blood stopping in his veins, his cells screaming at him, he thinks of the suns on his toes, Natasha practically sitting on him, her body warm against his own, full of comfort and safety and protection, and tries to remember what real warmth feels like, not the fire in his hand. Eventually, Zola takes the ice out of his palm with tongs and watches his hand, ignoring Bucky’s tear stained face, the gag strapped to his head, his body secured to a seat bolted to the floor.

“No signs of frostbite. No cell damage from extreme cold at all. This is promising!”

Zola brings over a pot of steaming water and puts Bucky’s hand in it.

Bucky screams through the gag, spit spilling where it can.

Later, he’s playing with his fingers, tapping each to his thumb and seeing how they move after all the pain they went through. They all work perfectly. So fucking weird. His bones ache. Maybe that pain isn’t real, he can’t always tell.

* * *

Bucky wakes up naked in a metal tube three days later. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he’s finally gotten used to waking up somewhere he’s not supposed to be and doesn’t that say something special. He’s a bit scared, he hasn’t lost all emotion, but he can push past it some to get a bit of a look around. He’s mostly upright, strapped to some sort of brace covered in fabric. His arm is free and in front of him is a small glass window. Outside he can see Zola and some techies surrounded by medical equipment and strange machinery.

He watches as Zola signals for something to happen and the temperature plummets. His ears pop as the pressure changes suddenly as well and ice starts forming all around him, frost bleeding over the metal, on Bucky’s skin.

He takes a small breath in panic and his lungs freeze halfway through the exhale. He can’t breathe, it hurts, his vision is swimming as his skin starts to harden and ache. He tries to reach for the window, but his body stops working and gets stiff in instants. He blinks and he can’t open his eyes again. He’s frozen still. He tries to move, but nothing works. There's just pain and more pain, and he can’t breathe, and then everything stops.

He doesn’t feel time pass. He’s barely even conscious if he could call it that.

But later, he stumbles out of the chamber with no support, falling on the floor as his numb feet fail to support him. His skin feels hot and his ears hurt from yet another pressure change and everything is fuzzy at best.

“Three days in cryostasis and he still lives!” Zola marvels. “This could be a huge advantage!”

Bucky’s ear ducks are frozen, a cold ache in his face, so he’s silent as the guards bodily haul him up and take him away.

* * *

The next day Natasha and he sneak out and walk through town after training. Natasha leads him, of course, because he doesn’t know where anything is or what anything is except the stuff close to the park.

“You sparred today,” she tells him as they walk.

“Yeah? How was I?”

“You fight… big,” she explains. “You take up a lot of space, use your size to overpower your opponent, and hit hard. You don’t pull any punches and your eyes never leave your target. It’s like watching a lioness hunt.”

“Not a lion?”

“Lions don’t usually hunt. They defend. Lionesses are in charge of hunting in a pride,” Natasha responds. “You fight like a predator. You actually walk like you’re there to murder someone. Head down, eyes up, wide stance, firm certain walk. It’s fascinating.”

She leads him into a little shop and then back into this big old warehouse looking thing in the back. A dozen or so people are already boarding around and Natasha pushes at him until he gets on her board and goes through so basic motions, getting used to what to expect without his arm. He goes forward, turns, does a jump, an ollie or two.

It’s then that she decides to put him on the biggest ramp there is with that little preparedness and by god, Bucky can’t say no to a lady, especially not Natasha. So there he is, looking down the ramp that is getting taller and longer the more he stares at it when someone huffing and puffing makes it up the ladder of the ramp. He’s got a scooter over his shoulder and a helmet and pads stuck to his elbows and knees. Sam, it turns out, is a black boy their age and, as Bucky was unaware, good at trick scootering. Bucky absently notices a green wristband, but doesn't comment.

“Oh, hey Sam,” Natasha says.

“Yo,” Sam replies as he puffs for air. “This the new guy?”

“Yep. Bucky, meet Sam. Sam, Bucky. Bucky’s messed up like me too.”

“What, the murder people stuff?”

“Not yet,” Bucky says immediately. “Right now, my life's a different kind of fucked up.”

“Do- do you wanna talk about it, man?” Sam asks, and there's something about his demeanor, his eyes, his genuine concern directed at him that makes Bucky wanna spill every secret he has. He is exactly like a sunflower, he realizes. Natasha was right. He’s got a nice kind face, bright and worried, with deep brown eyes that linger on them as he seems to check for injury.

“I- I’m not going to tell you everything,” Bucky says, running his hand through his hair, pushing it back and refusing to make eye contact. “But I was frozen alive like four days ago.”

Sam looks very concerned. “Shit.”

Bucky nods dumbly. “Yeah, so that’s where I’m at. Got defrosted yesterday. Sucked.” Sam pats his shoulder, telegraphing his move very slowly. Bucky appreciates it. Sam is warm and Bucky wants to lean into the touch, but he doesn’t.

“So yes,” Natasha says. “But that’s not why we’re here. We’re here to push Bucky down this ramp. It will be hilarious,” Natasha says.

“For you,” Bucky says, without any heat. He hands her his lucky top. “Good thing I’m not scared of death, though. If I die, bury me with my that top and Star of David.”

“I got you,” Natasha says, but is interrupted by another skateboarder, an adult man with tattoos, showing up with a confused smile.

“Hey, Natasha, who’s your new friend?” He peers at Bucky, still smiling. Bucky gives a little wave.

“Bucky. He hadn’t been on a board in-”

“Almost two years,” Bucky says.

“And I’m making him go down this.” Natasha grabs the helmet and puts it on Bucky’s head, buckling it under his chin.

“That’s a horrible idea,” the man says meaningfully. He now looks really concerned for Bucky's well being and he appreciates that.

“Oh, I know.” Natasha waves a hand at Bucky. “Go.”

Bucky sighs, curses lowly, and then says, loudly because he needs the confidence right now, [“ _I can do it, yes I can, ‘cause I’m a Jewish American!_ ”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2l-exvIxP2w) and he leans forward.

The wind makes his eyes water and by the time he’s over that first large bump, the board shoots out from under his feet despite trying to stay on it, sending him into a tumbling free fall. He’s lucky he has the helmet because as he tumbled across the floor, he hit his head twice and then rolled into a stop. He lays there for a second, spread eagle on the ramp and feeling like he just went through a dryer on tumble.

That’s when he notices everybody looking his way, he impassively says, “Not dead,” and puts a thumb up for good measure.

“Whoo!” Natasha shouts from the top of the ramp clapping loudly. “That’s my boy!”

She sounds really proud, actually, and her tone almost sets him off. He has to put his hand in front of his mouth to stop himself from grinning too hard. Sam cackles, finding the whole thing hysterical. It’s a good sound too, with a few strange noises mixed in, like snorts and cut off snickers that sound like gasps for air, like he can’t keep it contained.

Bucky can’t help but chuckle too, a bit embarrassed, but a good embarrassed, because that was probably really funny to watch.

* * *

Summer is infinitely better with Natasha and Sam. It’s unbelievably relieving to be able to go somewhere other than the HYDRA facility and feel safe in the presence of someone else. Bucky discovers that telling them about what he dealt with did wonders, even if it made them look at him in worry. It was nice to have people who knew and understood. It just solidifies his decision to actually talk with Steve when he got out of juvie.

But, being that intimate with them, that free with the reality of the world and the secrets that they hold, brings them together like they’re stuck in a twisted cat’s cradle, all tangled up and knotted together with no chance of the bond ever being undone. The level of comfort Bucky feels with Sam and Natasha is as comfortable as he feels with himself. He shares everything. Every nightmare, every memory, every horror show and every shitty meme that made him laugh. He tells them about Steve, the little punk asshole that he is, and what happened to him too.

But… even shitty things can ruin the good ones.

The day he first wakes up with blood on his hand, on his arm and body, sticking in his hair and tangling in it is _horrifying_. Bone-chilling and the feeling of slick blood running down his skin makes his skin crawl. He feels so disconnected, despite feeling nauseous, like he was stuck in a dream that wasn’t even his own. Like he was asleep and imagining what horrible things he might be forced to do one day, what he’d have to be prepared for when they make him kill somebody.

Rumlow is standing near the kitchen area, watching him passively. When he sees that Bucky is back in control, Rumlow nods to himself, turning to leave. “Wakey wakey, eggs and go take a fucking shower.”

Bucky doesn’t feel awake. The way Rumlow said that just makes him feel like he’s losing it.

He drifts into the bathroom in a daze, looking at himself in the mirror. His face is red with sticky cool blood, his hair plastered to his head, and his uniform- _when did he get a uniform?_ \- is completely drenched, to the point where the black leather and cloth looks red. He suddenly realizes that there's no way that the owner of all that blood is still alive, not missing this much from their veins.

He stares. And stares. And stares until he feels the blood dry up on his skin and realizes this is real. And he needs to really wash that off because he’s starting to feel rotten and dead and the blood weighs like an anvil on his body. His stomach rolls in horror and he feels bile start to come up his throat. He drops to his knees and throws up into the toilet, leaving sticky red hand prints on the sides of the bowl, the acid taste in his throat and mouth. Whatever amount of protein shake that he wasn’t done digesting was coming out alongside the burning feeling of stomach acid and hot tears on his face.

He does that until he’s dry heaving and tries to breathe to control it, in and out and in and out and-

He’s hyperventilating. That’s worse.

He shakily fumbles for the handle, flushing his vomit away and resting his forehead against the seat as he tries to regulate his breathing. He closes his eyes and pretends he doesn’t feel feverish and pretends it’s not real, just some horrifying nightmare.

When he can breathe in and out without feeling panic and horror to his bone, just a degree of numbness, he pulls himself off the seat with a sickening sticky sound and stumbles into the shower, falling as he trips over the outer rim of the tub.

He flails a bit and lands hard, pulling himself into a kneeling position and shakily pulling the lever so the shower turns on. It’s ice cold, but he just sits there in the spray.

He sits in a cold spray watching the red water swirl down the drain and wash from his hand. He feels like a shell, utterly helpless and sick. He feels like the world spins without his command and his voice is nothing but a whisper in an earthquake. After a while, he starts feeling cold and stands on unbalanced legs. He strips out of his wet bloodstained clothes and drops them on the floor with a wet smack. Bucky rinses off with his eyes closed, not wanting to see any more red as he tries to clean off.

After he feels like he’s finally not plastered in blood, he shambles out of the bathroom, grabs a handful of clothes and throws them on, face planting on the bed, exhausted from everything. He’s almost grateful, the next morning, when Rumlow comes in and says those magic words.

He comes back to himself walking to Nat’s room, lost hours forgotten as he seeks his only refuge. She clearly sees something wrong in his expression and she seems so distant, looking at him like he was far away, like moving the body wouldn’t move the soul from wherever it was. Natasha put him in her bed, the one he knows she never uses, the bed that smells like dust and unwashed store merchandise tucked him under a blanket, and sat with him, braiding his hair with deadly intent until his lips could work again.

“I’m used to missin’ time” Bucky manages, his voice hoarse and lost, even to his own ears. “But yesterday, after I got back, they used the words and shit got fuzzy and next thing I know I’m covered and blood and Rumlow is just waitin’ for me to snap out of it.”

Bucky curls in on himself, the pain of realization stabbing into his heart as he realizes to his core that he took someone's life, a person who didn’t deserve it, a person who was once a child and probably laughed in delight as they begged their mom or dad to pick them up. A person who went to school and studied for years. A person who had friends that cared about them and wanted them to be okay. All of that life, compiled to thousands of experiences and meaningful moments just to end up being some sort of cattle at the slaughter for Bucky and HYDRA.

“I think they made me kill a guy. They made me kill someone.” He whispers. “I’m scared, Nat.”

Natasha pets his head calmly. She doesn’t say anything and it kind of makes Bucky glad. He doesn’t need to hear the lies that will make him feel better. He doesn't need false reassurances. Natasha knows this because she knows this situation like the back of her hand.

But she also knows he doesn’t need to hear the words that will tell him that he’ll do it again.

Instead, she sings softly to inaudible music and he closes his eyes to the words coming from her lips and the truth behind them.

[“The sun’ll come out~ tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomo~rrow~ there’ll be sun. Just thinkin’ about~ tomorrow~ clears away the cobwebs and sorrow~ till there's none. When I’m stuck with a day~ that’s gray~ and lone~ly, I just stick out my chin, and grin, and sa~ay: oo~oh, the sun’ll come out~ tomorrow. So you gotta hang on till tomor~row, come what may…”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BlJXW_DplYQ)

* * *

Steve finally gets out of juvie, nearly two months of being in prison.

Bucky sets up a Skype account and anxiously waits to receive a request from Steve. Of course, he’s at the Red Room facility at night. He snuck out to do this because he didn’t dare try to talk to Steve where Hydra was. Natasha was busy, out on a mission, but she told him how to get in and out of her room without springing any of the traps. He was sat next to no less than three guns in case someone tried to break in, and had raided her candy stash. He didn’t dare touch anything blueberry flavored, fearing the wrath of a woman scorned.

When the video request finally arrives, he accepts it immediately and starts a video call. What he sees, after years of not knowing what Steve looked like nowadays, is not what he’s expecting.

Steve is dressed in a black tank top, bold black tattoos displayed over his arms and chest and neck, and a nasty scar over his eyebrow. His hair isn’t dyed, it’s regular ol’ golden blonde, and a bit shaggy for Steve’s usual standards, though he still pushes his bangs to the side instead of back or anything else. Prisoners probably can’t dye their hair, so that explains that, but the tattoos... Definitely a surprise. And the piercings. His ears are decked out and he’s got one on his eyebrow.

It’s shocking, seeing him so changed after so long. In Bucky’s mind, he’s still the scrawny stick-like punk that tried to punch out fells twice his size, begging his grandma to let him dye his hair, skin free from any covering, any major scar or mark. Now he looks like he walked out a tattoo parlor and into a piercing studio before raiding a Hot Topic or Spencer's. It’s not a half-bad look on him, but Bucky was a bit surprised.

Steve immediately frowns, looking at Bucky closely, bright blue eyes focused on him intensely. Bucky can see him trying to put something together, reading Bucky’s every motion and feature for a clue. Nobody ever accused Steve of being stupid, that’s for sure. He’s real keen, real clever, great planner, always spotting little details.

“Hey, punk,” Bucky says, cracking a grin he knows looks worn thin, a rubber band about to snap. “How have you been?”

“Just got out of juvie,” Steve explained, raising an eyebrow. Bucky notes a flash of silver in his mouth. Tongue piercing. Good god, the little guy went all out. “Not too bad, kinda fun in some ways. Got some tattoos and battle scars. How ‘bout you?”

The grin drops off Bucky’s face and he rubs his forehead. “Pretty shit, actually.”

“Yeah? Why come?” Steve sounds so damn earnest that it’s all Bucky can do to blurt it all out there.

“Listen,” Bucky said tiredly, knowing this is going to be draining because it already is. “It’s kind of a long story and it ain’t a pretty one. The gist of it is that I’m fucked up now and what I tell you, you need to never say to another living soul. I am not fucking around here Steve. What I tell you, you keep your gob shut about.”

“I won’t say a word, Bucky. Scouts honor,” Steve says immediately, frowning. He glances around and then pulls over some headphones, plugging them in and putting the headphones on. “I’ll help if I can.”

Then Bucky tells him everything, all of the pain and neglect and the bone-deep desire to be free of it all. He tells him about being stabbed, about living on the streets, about how Hydra picked him up and twisted him inside out to make him the perfect puppet for their cause, about the blood and what he knows happened even though he can’t remember a damn thing.

“Fucking hell, Bucky,” Steve says softly. “God, if I was there-”

“They’d kill you, Stevie,” Bucky says bluntly. They might even make Bucky kill Steve himself. It really wasn’t worth it. “That’s why I’m not even in that fucking building. I can’t risk your life for this. And calling the cops won’t do anything. They’re too good. You call the cops, next thing we know an entire precinct has been blown up or everybody shot dead and no leads. I just… I need you to know. It helps, if someone knows.”

“Your burden is mine too,” Steve swore. “But, God, I wish alla this never happened.”

“I know. But, y’know, it ain’t all bad.” He’s trying to write it off, but it’s so hard to admit just how horrible it all is, the weight and burden it puts on Bucky’s back, a headcount he can’t remember. “I don’t remember what they make me do, and the place they’re training me has this girl, Natasha, who’s kinda like me. We’re buddies. She’s nice, and dangerous, but talented, and funny, and a hell of a dame.”

“Yeah? I look forward to meetin’ her.” He shifts forward, smiling a bit.

“Told her about you, actually. She likes you already. She’s awesome, Steve. Can fight like hell. She’s a hurricane in a feather boa and jumbo sunglasses. She sings 80’s tunes and rocks karaoke,” he rambles, because Nat really is that great. She’s nothing less than exactly what she is and that honesty of a person is something that Bucky really admires. Sure, she might conceal a lot, but if you were her friend, she’d spill her soul to you.

Steve grins and it’s as familiar as Bucky’s own heartbeat. “Sounds like a hell of a girl.”

* * *

One day Sam and Bucky are in Nat’s room, a blistering hot room because the damn AC broke and there is no way they’re going someone else in this heat wave, so they’re clumped together in front of Nat’s fan. Nat was the first to strip to her underpants and bra, and the boys followed her example, trying not to soak up body heat as they squeeze together in front of the artificial breeze. Sam is still wearing that wristband, a medical wristband, and by now Bucky actually knows what it is. Sam's a pre-mute, has an inactive x-gene. Wearing the bad has put him through a hell of a time, but he's required by law to do so and that thing just won't break.

It’s when Natasha looks over and examines him that Bucky remembers the burns and scars littering his body. There are healed cuts over his arm, back, a few on his legs. Some have surgical precision, others are wild and random. Burns littler his back, shoulder, and arms. He suddenly wanted to put his shirt back on, despite it being a thousand degrees.

“Nice cigarette burns,” she says, and Bucky grimaced. “Wanna see mine?”

At that Bucky blinks and watches as she literally pulls off her bra and lays back down, back on display. He blinked at the line of burns on each knob of her spine, a line broken only by a brand between her shoulder blades. Sam doesn’t seem surprised, but he did look startled that Nat just pulled that risque move.

Bucky himself would admit to feeling more put off by seeing Nat’s boobs initially because _what why did she do that_ , but now the scars are his focus.

Sam reaches out and traces a little brand in the center of Nat’s back with his ring ringer, softer than a feather. The brand, because there's nothing else it could be, looks exactly like the mark on the back of a black widow spider.

Feeling emotional and knowing the pain that must have inflicted and how he would have liked for them to be treated, Bucky leaned over and kissed the center of the cigarette scars, which leaving Nat blinking at him and Sam giving him a surprised look.

“To make ‘em feel better.”

“They’re old,” Nat said. “They don't hurt anymore.”

Bucky shrugged, because not all scars hurt on the outside anymore, and said “Penises” into the fan, which distorted his voice and made Natasha laugh, shoulders shaking.

* * *

Bucky wakes up on the floor and blearily looks around. Natasha is lying prone next to him, face twisted in a grimace and hand on her side. He can feel blood sliding down the side of his face, and he’s sweaty and panting for breath. His hand hurts and there’s pain ebbing from everywhere. And… He… there is definitely a knife in his leg and he can feel his broken ribs. His wrist feels wrong and he has cuts all along his arm.

“Nat?” Bucky slurs.

She looks over at him. “Hey. It’s you.”

“What-?”

“They made us go one on one, weapons allowed. You chose a gun. I took knives,” she explained. “Sorry for stabbing you multiple times.”

“S’fine,” Bucky mumbles. “You… okay?”

“You shot me. Non-vital area, through and through. But it’s okay. They’ll be here in a second to get us to a recovery bay.”

“I- I shot you?” Fear spikes through Bucky and he tries to look, spotting a spreading red spot on Natasha’s stomach, ice making him freeze, eyes wide. “Nat, I-” he chokes out.

“Shut up, lay down, and hold my fucking hand,” she orders, shifting her arm so it was closer to him. Bucky flopped back down and reached out so their bloody hands joined, the red slick between their palms, laying in silence. He pretends his wrist doesn't hurt.

“I don’t care that you shot me when you literally didn’t even know what was happening or whatever. I couldn't care less. So let’s just wait here and take in that this is what’s happening and we’re both fine and we’ll be fine, and later, when you’re all healed and I’m stuck on bed-rest, you’ll go buy me some blueberries or something to make me feel better and we’ll cuddle, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I like you. I don’t care. Buy me blueberries.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t have complex tastes.”

“Okay.”

“If you start crying, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said, choked up.

“I lied, I’m telling Sam.”

Bucky feels laughter bubble up into his chest. “Traitor,” he says wetly.

Later, Sam flips his shit. There is some yelling, a lot of expletives, and Natasha starts laughing at some point, which makes her wince in pain and then Bucky starts cracking up, and he’s got a cast on his wrist and he keeps knocking it against shit. But he bought Natasha a thing of blueberries, a big blueberry flavored lollipop, and got some chips, Doritos, for himself. Sam started yelling at how they weren’t taking this seriously and Natasha said if they took it seriously the stress would kill them.

Bucky laughed again, and said, [“ _You are my best friend! If I’m dyin’, you dyin’ with me, ain’t no choice!”_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0K20eE2h3o)

And they set them both off again and Sam kept yelling at them and then angrily pressed himself into Bucky’s side, hands under his armpits, face embedded in Bucky’s shoulder/pec area, knees drawn up to his chest, like a pissed off cuddly kitten and whenever Bucky tried to tell him that they were fine, he hissed like an alley cat and told him to shut his dumbass mouth. Bucky tried to hug him and Sam once again hissed to not touch him because if Bucky tried to comfort Sam after Bucky himself shot Nat and got stabbed and broke bones, he was going to flip the couch.

“If you try to comfort me when you are in need of comfort I will literally lose my god damn mind,” is what he growled at Bucky.

Bucky grinned stupidly at him.

“And wipe that look off your face, I’m mad at you!”

* * *

Bucky hazily wakes to burning pain on his back, his arm and legs and feet burning with exertion, and the sound of a crack of a whip. Moments later, ice burns along his lower back a bleeding line and he shouts in pain, hips and torso snapping forward to twist away. Something around his throat tightens as he moves and he struggles to stay upright and keep breathing. He wildly glances around, sees a cuff secured to his wrist, its metal chain fed through a metal pole firmly bolted into the wall, and leading down to a collar wrapped around his neck. If he stops standing on his toes, he’s threatening to strangle himself. If he yanks on his wrist, same thing, only he might dislocate his wrist too.

He can feel hot blood rushing down his spine, a line cut into his skin, several more crisscrossing over his skin sluggishly oozing crimson down his back. He can feel it soaking his boxers and trailing down his legs and puddling under his feet. The wounds itch where they’re starting to heal and Bucky wants it all to stop.

“Whu-?” He slurs, voice muffled by a gag secured to his head. He tries to look around but he’s interrupted by another loud crack and burning pain across his upper back, making his back bleed agony and his shoulder blades feel like they’ve cracked. He screams and chokes out a sob and coughs when his breathing is again restricted.

Someone roughly grabs his shoulder and forces him to turn. Bucky finds himself looking at Rumlow squinting into Bucky’s eyes like he’s looking for gold in a pan. “Shit, it’s the kid. Woke up halfway through. Should I put him under?”

“Yes. This punishment is supposed to be the Soldier’s. He can’t be allowed to believe that leaving witnesses is acceptable.”

Bucky managed to look around and to his shock and dismay he’s- he’s in fucking office. And he can see Pierce at a desk a little over a dozen feet away. There's a bookcase behind him, darkened windows covered with shades, chairs, a conference table. It’s a fucking office, and Pierce is sitting at his fucking desk like it’s nothing that Bucky’s being whipped in front of him. He spares a glance at his computer and clicks on something.

Tears pour down Bucky’s face.

Rumlow leaned in, whispering rough Russian into Bucky’s ear. It sends him falling again, like the floor was dropping out from under him. The pain faded with his awareness, and the darkness was bliss.

* * *

Bucky stuck a sucker in his mouth and considered the rooftop. Besides him, Natasha and Sam argued over a bag of Dum-Dums, trying to divide them by favorite flavors and fighting over the root beer ones. Bucky, lips tasting like bubblegum, kicked his feet back and forth over the edge. There was a six or so story drop in front of him, pavement below.

He moved the sucker to the left side of his mouth and grabbed his Pepsi, drinking from the other side and spotting a pair of pigeons fly overhead. It was kinda nice out, sort of overcast but a good temperature and nearly no wind.

“Here are the grape ones,” Sam said, dumping ten or so into Bucky’s lap.

“‘Fanks,” Bucky mumbled past the lollipop and put his soda down.

“No problem, man,” Sam said absently and rummaged around in the bag. “Does anyone even like the apple ones? There's like, fifteen of them in here.”

“Chuck ‘em off the side,” Natasha advised.

“I’ll vote no on that. I’ll just, I don’t know, hand ‘em out to strangers on my way home.”

“Why’d you bring us here, Nat?” Bucky asks.

“It’s a rooftop,” she says, like it explains everything.

“Go on.”

“You can… see everything. And there's no people. I brought candy, Buchanan. I don’t know what else you want out of me.”

“I can’t believe that’s your fucking name,” Sam mentions.

“I don’t know the logic behind it either,” Bucky admitted, scratching his chin. “Think it was dumb luck. So, what’d you do this week, Sam?”

“Nothing really interesting. Mostly stayed in my room. Read some books. Watched Jumanji. Nat?”

“Training. Movies. I went on a mission Wednesday. They had me assassinate someone's company rival. It was made to look like a suicide. Messy.” She seems unphased, but they know better. They know how she hates to have to kill people. She always tries to make it painless.

Sam offered his hand and she took it. “You do what you have to to survive,” Sam says soothingly. “One day we’ll help you figure something out.”

“Thank you.”

“Yo, Buck, I’m making it venting hour,” Sam said. “What do you have on your chest?”

Bucky hesitated. “I’m getting whipped now, as a punishment. Or the Soldier is. He left witnesses, I heard. I know he’s… not real, not a person, but it’s still kinda fucked up. And it hurts. I can feel the scars catching on my shirt when I put it on, but I don’t want to look to see what it looks like.”

Sam listened intently. “How are you feeling about all this today?”

“Pretty fucked up, but normal. Like, this is just how shit is now. And I want to jump off this rooftop, but I’m not gonna. But- I’m… I don’t like having all these scars. I don’t like how the look. I can’t go without a long sleeve shirt now and that- that sucks. I don’t want people to see what’s on my skin.”

“That’s normal. People usually only show what they have control over. Tattoos, as an example. But people often feel self-conscious over what they can’t control. Birthmarks, scars. It’s okay to not want people to see, but you shouldn't let the way they look to make you feel bad about yourself, right? Your mental health isn’t the best, no shit, right, but don’t let yourself make it worse.”

Bucky nodded. “Got it.”

“Do you want me to look and tell you have they look?”

Bucky cracked his knuckles and stared out into the street before nodding.

Sam moves slowly and kneels behind Bucky, hooking his fingers under Bucky’s shirt and pulling up. He hums at the sight and Bucky feel his finger trace the long broad marks. They’ve healed like ragged messes, torn and frayed skin weaving together without any concern of their appearance, crooked because of how Bucky was held up by one hand when he received them. The scars raised up in jagged scabs on his skin, he could feel it easily enough.

“These aren’t great looking. Do they hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

“That’s good. I’m glad they aren’t hurting you,” Sam says as he sits beside Bucky again. “I wish I could do more.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. None of this is fine. This is all super fucked up. We all know that. But we’re both here for you during this, so if something like this happens again, tell us.”

“If I can,” Bucky agrees.

“Hey,” Sam says after a second. “If you’re willing to try something, I want you to think about the things you like about your body.”

“Right now, or like…?”

“Whenever.”

Bucky thought about it and looked at his legs. He kicked his feet up and considered his shoes. “I think my feet look nice.”

Natasha hummed. “We’ll see for how long. They’ve started teaching you some ballet.”

“Well, they ain’t half bad right now. And I like…” Bucky blanked. He hated his skin and the way it looked, so he couldn’t say that. He didn’t like his missing arm. “I- I guess it’s cool that… my…” There's a silence.

“You’ve got a great ass,” Natasha says, startling both boys and making them look over. She makes an ass motion with her hands. “Firm and round. Not too big. Shapely.” Sam snorts and coughs as Bucky blinks at Natasha. “It’s like on one of those nude statues.”

Sam starts crackling and almost goes over the edge. Bucky grabs his shirt to make sure he doesn’t fall off. Sam pats Bucky’s knee. “Thick thighs save lives,” he manages, face doing something complicated as he laughs and tries not to.

“You’ve got a pretty face,” Natasha adds. “And nice hair. It’s nice to braid and do things with.”

Bucky is initially flustered, but manages a, “I- I’m really strong. That’s neat, I s’pose.”

“Well there you go,” Sam says with a little grin. “There’s a fine little list. Feel a little better?”

“It’s easier to… not focus on the scars, I guess.”

“Better than nothing,” Sam agrees.

Natasha looks through her candy pile and then very seriously hands Bucky one of her blueberry ones. He takes it, feeling warmth in his chest because only they know what the little honor meant. “Thank you, Nat. I’ll savor it.”

She nods sagely.

* * *

Bucky wakes up two more separate times while being whipped, each time forced back under so the Soldier can finish his punishment. When he sees Pierce at his desk, face impassive and uncaring as he works on paperwork, or argues with someone on the phone, like Bucky isn’t being tortured in front of him, Bucky can’t contain his tears. He doesn’t know what it is about looking around and seeing an office that fucks with him, but it makes his heart hurt and his chest ache and he sobs.

Bucky doesn’t tell Sam or Natasha. They just see his tired eyes and understand.

* * *

Next week, Zola gets time to play with him and Bucky is awake as Zola cuts him open and roots around inside his torso, a team of fascinated surgeons watching as Zola points out all the little interesting things the serum did as he pokes around.

Bucky stares at the ceiling, blinking away tears of pain and sending little gasps through the gag. He ignores their rambling and tries to fall asleep with tear stains on his cheeks as blades cut into his skin. He doesn't want to watch as they peel him open again and it’s easier to pretend it’s not happening as he closes his eyes and thinks of something else.

Five days later he wakes in his bed with stitches in his hand and all the way up and around his arm. It feels heavier. He takes stock of himself and finds more stitches along his body, his legs, knee, calves, feet, his back, his chest. He later finds out his bones were reinforced with metal mesh-like plates. They don’t make him do anything really strenuous for the rest of the month, no more play time with Zola that is, but he can tell that he gets sent out on missions.

* * *

Bucky blinks himself out of a painful haze and coughs, a wet sound in his throat as he blinks and blinks past the pain. He’s… flat on his back, and his body feels heavy, like he’s pressing himself into it. He tries to spit out the blood in his mouth and throat, but finds his mouth blocked by a thin fabric mask, like, a ski-mask or something. He coughs again and feels something loose and hard in his mouth, pushing against his tongue and gums.

Groaning, he scrabbles at the fabric and pushes past the pain to turn his head and weakly spit out everything pooling in his mouth. He blinks and squints at the floor, spotting a bloody tooth in the middle of a splatter of blood.

Where the fuck was he?

What the fuck happened?

Bucky coughs again and it sounds wet and raspy in his chest. He managed to blink tears and blood and sweat out of his eyes and looks around. It’s dark, but there are dim lights set about, bright spots that make his eyes ache, and he can see bodies around him, blood on the floor in splashes and splatters. He’s in some sort of warehouse, or almost outside. He can see an open garage door to his left.

There's a woman standing over him, a metal spear of all things pointed at his throat. He can see that she’s black, but her face is covered, as is her hair, like she’s wearing a niqab. She’s in a skin-tight black outfit, but it isn’t stupidly sexualized like he was used to seeing on TV, it compresses and defends, a sort of chest plate or vest over her torso, holsters on her hips. A good quality armor, with nice little patterns over it. Bucky kinda liked it. 

Bucky coughs again and lets the blood dribble out of the side of his mouth instead of spitting it out. Something shifts in his chest and Bucky looks down to see a short dagger, more like a switchblade, honestly, in his left rib cage, black gleaming metal, slick and red with blood. Bucky sighs and puts his hand against the wound, fingers on either side of the blade. “Okay, that’s fair.”

Bucky coughs and that makes blood in his throat well up faster, so he resists the urge. She hesitates and then narrows her eyes, putting the spear closer to his throat.

Bucky sort of blinks at her impassively, forgetting how he should be reacting. “Nice spear,” he compliments nonsensically. “Woulda preferred you killed me when I wasn’t conscious about it, but whatever, I guess.” He closes his eyes and waits, but nothing happens. He opens them again. She’s moved a bit, the spear no longer so close, and now pointing at his chest. She’s looking at him curiously, confused.

“You gonna stab me or not?”

“What are you talking about? What is this?” She sounds frustrated and confused. She’s African, Bucky notes. That’s neat. Wishes he knew where from, but he guesses that’s not important in the given situation.

“Hey, if a Russian girl with red hair hunts you down, tell her I asked for it, she might not try to kill you that way, and that she’s one of my best friends and I love her. Might, uh, bring another kid along. He’s got a gap between his teeth and a green wristband. Pro’lly be crying, he’s sensitive. Tell him I love him too. She might be cryin’ too, to be honest, I don’t know.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” she tells him angrily. “You are a child!”

He sighs, not surprised but disappointed anyway. “Figures. Okay, well, I’m not getting up by myself, so just do what you’re gonna do, I guess.” Resignation settles in his bones and he mentally prepares himself for being whipped later. He sometimes passes out. It’s kind of hard to force that, you have to be in a lot of pain, but he’s done it.

He coughs and finds that a second tooth was barely hanging in there and after poking at it with his tongue, it comes loose and he spits it out, twisting his head so it’s in the same direction as the other. Same side. He must have gotten hit really hard on the left side of his face. He’s missing his middle two molars now. He’d care more, and he should care more, those are adult teeth, but he knows they’ll just replace them, one way or another.

“They’ll probably just rip out all my fucking teeth and put fake ones in anyway, might as well get a head start,” Bucky mutters to himself.

“They what? Who?”

“Hydra, or whatever. Nazi scientists. Messing around with mind control, got lucky with me.” She doesn’t move and Bucky feels desperation well in his chest along with grief and shame. He sucks in a shuddering wet breath and tries to blink past tears he can’t control. “Please, if you’re not going to kill me, just go. Please,” he asks with a high voice, clearly trying not to cry now. He sobs and tries to disguise it as a cough, looking away and shutting his eyes as tears burn in them. “I’m not crying, I’m just trying not to choke on blood. I’m fine.”

She kind of deflates, he can hear her sigh of defeat, and she crouches next to him. Bucky looks at her as she awkwardly pats him on the head, pushing blood sticky hair off his face. “I can’t help you. I’m on a timetable, you weren’t part of my mission. But next time I see you, or when I find you next, I’ll take you somewhere safe. Okay?”

“Sure,” Bucky mumbles, doubting it.

“Until then, you need to stay strong. Okay?”

“I literally just invited you to kill me and I still want you too,” Bucky replies.

“Perhaps your god can give you the strength?” she offers.

“That asshole’s never done shit for me,” Bucky responded. “If he exists, he can go bug some other Jew.”

She pauses. “How about mine? Could you put your faith in my goddess?”

“Don’t see why not,” Bucky mumbled.

“Okay. Good. Just… when you feel that way, think ‘Bast, ndikhusele.’"

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to remember that,” Bucky admits. “They… they erase my memory sometimes. I might not even remember you.”

She looks pained, he can see that in her eyes, and she tries to find a solution. She looks at the teeth and grimaces, but reaches over and picks them up. She wipes them booth off with the hem of her shirt and brings up her wrist, which has a beaded bracelet on it. With a motion, a hologram has appeared, and she uses it to scan the tooth or something. She brings the wristband close to the first tooth and Bucky watches in amazement as a stream of nanites or something, neatly carve the words into the tooth. She hands it back and he looks at the etched words, the original and translating in tiny letters. “Can you hide it on yourself?”

“I think so. But- if I don’t know who you are, how will I know to trust you?”

“I’ll have the other tooth.”

“You- you should write something on it too. So I know. Write, uh.” Bucky thinks. He has to know one good enough to pass his own test and licks his split lip. “Ha’yotze mi’pi’chem ta’a’su. It- it means ‘Do what you have promised.”

“That’s in Hebrew.”

“I’m Jewish, I damn well hope it’s Hebrew.”

She nods and does the same to the second tooth, then putting it in her pocket. She gives him a pained look. “Just keep strong. I’ll find you again. I need to go. I’ve already wasted too much time.”

“Okay. Good- good luck,” Bucky managed to offer.

“Do you mind if I knock you unconscious?”

“It's the closest to being dead I’m gonna get here, so just knock me out, please. Wait, let me stick this tooth in my sock.” He did so and got comfortable again. “Okay, go.”

He registers her hitting him in the head, perfectly placed, the right amount of force, and slips into blissful darkness.

* * *

Later, Bucky wakes up to find a new scar on his chest and something hard in his sock. He’s initially confused, sitting up in his bed, where he’s been placed on the covers, but then, like being punched, he abruptly remembers the woman from yesterday, their conversation, and how she promised a rescue he doubted. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling sore and exhausted, and pulled the tooth out of his sock, peering at it and mouthing the words again and again. He licked his lips anxiously and repeated the words in his head, the pronunciation was specific and difficult, but he felt that he may be able to manage it.

It was strange, thinking of praying to another god, one he wasn’t even that familiar with, but he liked the sentiment of it better than praying to the one that was supposed to be his own. He wonders if this goddess will actually hear him.

Bucky quickly worries about the integrity of the tooth and gets up to look up ‘tooth preservation techniques.’ It didn’t actually help all that much. He tried a few other searches and decided that he’d just wash it off a bit and then keep it in a little container, the smallest he could manage. It ended up being a pencil sharpener with the shaving compartment, about the size of a C battery. He put it in his desk for safe keeping.

He texts Natasha that he almost died on a mission but he was still alive.

She texts back a flurry of emojis that expressed that she was worried, a little mad, and wanted to see him.

Bucky said that he was missing two teeth.

Natasha expressed shock and fascination.

Bucky sent back confusion and Natasha sent a ttyl, which wasn’t helpful, but she probably was actually busy doing stuff. Bucky’s computer beeped with a notification and Bucky glanced at it as Sam started blowing up his email, which told Bucky that Nat ratted him out.

 **TEETH?!?!?!?!** Sam messages him. **WHAT THE FUCK**

Bucky sends back a shrug emoji and Sam sends back incomprehensible gibberish.

Later, Bucky found himself very grateful when the scientist or doctor or dentist who was about to yank teeth out of his skull actually drugged him before letting a pair of pillars appear in his vision, Zola watching in fascinated interest a few paces away. Bucky slipped into darkness and woke up feeling terrible, sick and dizzy, to an aching jaw. His teeth all felt… the same, more or less, they had scans of his head, they probably took molds and got like, an actual dentist to replace the teeth, but he knew what they really were. They looked a bit whiter. Not by much, but it was noticeable.

Bucky thinks replacing all of them is a bit overkill.

Rumlow let him look at the x-rays, which showed that all his teeth had been replaced with artificial ones, drill sockets set into his jaw, which had apparently been fractured. It would be a lot easier to replace them now, Rumlow said cheerfully, assuming he got beat up enough for that to happen again. Which wouldn’t occur, because the Soldier was going to be properly disciplined for his failure to eliminate the attacker who ruined the mission.

Bucky feels a twinge of fear, but he knows it won’t be anything he’s not familiar with, which just makes him feel sad and hurt. He goes to lay down and sink into the blankets.

* * *

School starts and it pretty much just fails to mark an important turning point for Bucky. He’s been through so much shit that school is a minor thing, really. He’s been stabbed, brainwashed, forced to kill people, doesn’t even have an arm, gets migraines occasionally that make him want to eat a gun, he’s getting whipped almost regularly, and school isn’t really daunting anymore. It's kind of… underwhelming, actually. The people seem so small and petty and trivial.

It's weird to see people worried about assignments and stressing over syllabuses rather than what missions they have, like Nat, or being forced out of their heads at the sound of words. But, after homeroom and arriving in history, he hears a little something that makes him feel surprise, shock, and bone-deep joy.

He had sat in his assigned seat, ready for more syllabus or material stuff when he heard -

“Bucky?!”

That voice makes Bucky’s head whip around so fast he probably gave himself whiplash, but seeing Steve in all his punk ass tattooed pierced glory makes him immediately forget.

“Steve!” Bucky shouts and is out of his seat, slamming into Steve as he grabs him in a big hug and kind of tackles Steve into a desk which makes two others clatter over. Bucky can’t help but pick up the smaller boy in a crushing hug, but when he hears Steve’s back pop in a quick series, he quickly sets him down, letting Steve take a breath, letting him plant one hand on his shoulder for support.

“Think you just cured my fuckin’ scoliosis,” Steve wheezes and Bucky starts laughing, covering his mouth with his hand. “Snap-crackle-popped my spine back inta’ place.”

The teacher shouts at them to get to their assigned seats.

“I’m sittin’ next to him,” Steve says with a voice that could make an unstoppable force falter at the very least. “This is my best pal and I haven’t seen him since I went into foster care.”

Steve was clearly manipulating the teacher into feeling pity, and Bucky anxiously watched to see what would happen. The teacher glares at them and then sighs, defeated. She’s no unmovable object in this scenario, between the guilt trip and the fact that Bucky doesn’t have an arm, Steve is. “Fine, but if you get loud or talk excessively, I will be separating you two,” she says, pointing threateningly.

They sit so close together that they end up tangled just as badly as the cords to Nat’s entertainment system. They’re practically no point where they could say ‘this is where I begin and this is where I end’. As they sit like that, they go over the syllabus and miscellaneous papers they were given. Bucky puts his arm over Steve’s shoulders and tells Steve how to fill out the forms for Bucky, mumbling the answers as Steve scribbles it down, tongue sticking out in concentration.

Bucky notices some of Steve’s smaller tattoos now and pushes the pant leg of Steve’s pants up to see an anchor with a Star of David and his initials in it.

“You-” Bucky floundered.

“Yeah,” Steve answers simply, like he didn’t do something to himself that was permanent in all the ways that counted.

“You’re ridiculous,” Bucky says in an upset manner, but he can’t help the way his eyes water at the thought that this little punk permanently marked Bucky into his skin. That’s so fucking cheesy and sweet and this asshole did it probably without a second thought. It makes Bucky’s heart squeeze so tight he’s afraid it’ll break.

They compare schedule and find that they have English together as well. It’s frankly a relief.

During lunch, Bucky’s phone pings. He’s sitting alone at one of the circular tables as other kids avoid him, avoiding even asking for one of the chairs, instead, they’re just cramming sometimes two to a seat to sit with friends.

After raising an eyebrow at someone staring at his empty sleeve, he checks his phone. He’s eating a bought lunch, so mac and cheese that tastes like cardboard, a bread bun thing, a little cup of green beans that are greasy, and some chocolate milk. Regular cartoned milk tastes… oily. Frankly, it’s hard to eat and text at the same time with one hand, but with some finagling, he puts his fork between his fingers and puts the phone in his palm so he could read, occasionally scooping mac and cheese with the fork and stick it in his mouth.

**_Birddabbler: so i got called to the office in homeroom to help out a blind kid b/c we’re in the same classes, except for gym and they didn’t want to get him a guide b/c they didn’t want to ‘waste money’ on it. Kk, fuckin rule and ableist but he’s p cool and a foster kid, he’s in the friend group now, kk?_ **

Well, that was blunt.

**_borkybuns: cool, what’s his name_ **

**_Birddabbler: Matt Murdock._ **

**_Blueberrybabe: nice. I got a buddy too. Remember the archer carnie i told u about? Found him. I ate lunch with him. His names clint barton and he’s got hearing aids now_ **

**_Birddabbler: y are u responding in class_ **

**_Blueberrybabe: bc mrs. jules dont give a shit_ **

**_borkybuns: o yah tru_ **

Bucky had her for third. She truly did not give a shit for anything short of a literal injury or emergency situation. Her philosophy seemed to be if you fail the class because you’re on your phone too much, that’s on you.

With all this talk of friends, Bucky smacks himself in the face with his phone while face palming. Ow. He forgot he only had the one hand and it was holding his phone they for a second. And he almost stabbed his eye out with the fork. Some days Bucky wants three hands instead of one. It would make everything so much easier.

**_borkybuns: oh, wait, i found my guy too, my steve._ **

**_borkybuns: he’s in my history, first period_ **

**_Blueberrybabe: what kinda fuckery is this. Do ppl just make friends like this willy nilly?_ **

**_Birddabbler: ya, sorta. I’m supposed to take matt from class to class and read him things that are in print and fill stuff in too, so we got friendly quick. Steve was buckys buddy b4 any of us, and reunited ppl make good friends._ **

Bucky tried to eat as much as possible before his phone pinged again. The mac and cheese, though cardboard flavored, was smothered in gooey delicious cheese that more than made up for the quality of the noodles. When he cleared his plate, he used the bun so sop the cheese up, eating with relish.

**_Blueberrybabe: now i feel dumb_ **

**_Birddabbler: u got a messed up notion of how friends work bc u didn’t have any for like 14years, i think its find nat_ **

**_Birddabbler: fine_ **

**_Blueberrybabe: i mean ur not wrong, but i feel socially stunted_ **

**_Birddabbler: u are, but u still are a great friend, so really it isn’t that bad. Except when ur dudes say that they’ll kill me_ **

**_Birddabbler: ttyl, class._ **

**_Blueberrybabe: okay, lets do this: everybody plue new friends meet up at the skateplace k?_ **

The bell rang before Bucky could reply, plus he’d have to ask Steve during English if he could go or wanted to go. He practically stared at the clock until English class finally came and he beelined for Steve and the seat next to him.

“Hey,” Bucky says breathlessly. “I texted my friends and we’re going to this skate park thing after school, you wanna come?”

“Hey, yeah,” Steve replied. “Totally. But I don’t have a skateboard or anything.”

Bucky waved his hand to dismiss the thought. “Nat is bringing a guy who might not know how to and Sam has this blind guy.” Bucky floundered, realizing that that was kinda shitty, to assume. “I mean, he might be able to, don’t wanna be ableist, but again, I dunno. Either way, you won’t be alone, I guess.”

Steve smiles and nods. “Alright, yeah then. I mean, it’s the first day, we won’t have any homework or anything, right?”

“Yeah.” Well, Bucky had something, but it could take like five minutes, so not really.

Steve and Bucky met after school at the flagpoles and Bucky led Steve to his house, telling Steve about everything he could as he texted Nat and Sam that he got Steve and was on his way after he got his board. Bucky tells Steve the truth about the Red Room and how he met Nat. He tells him what she’s like and what to expect of her.

In return, Steve tells him about juvie and the literal gang he joined in there called the Howling Commandos, how he got his scars, how he got his tattoos. How he stopped a terrorist organization from creating crazy energy gun, blew up his juvie, and got juiced up with a super serum. How he was stronger, faster, healthier.

Bucky stopped walking, just staring at his best friend, mind whirling. That- that was a lot to unpack, but... “What?” he finally manages.

“Well, I’m-”

“You’re- you're cured? You don’t get- don’t get sick no more? Your-” Bucky reaches out to hold Steve’s face and turn it so he can see that hearing aid. He pulls it out and holds it to his own, listening to it, listening to sound amplified, or the sound of electricity.

“Hey, grabby,” Steve huffs.

“It’s not on,” Bucky mumbled, shocked, because he can't hear shit from it, it's dead, lifeless. “Jesus Christ.”

Steve snatches it back and Bucky narrows in on Steve's neck, reaching out and putting his fingers right on a pulsepoint, feeling the motion of blood pumping at such a slow even pace, even though it jumped a bit when Bucky moved. “It’s so slow,” he marvels. “And steady.”

“Bucky-”

Bucky moves in to hug him, putting his hand on Steve's back. Steve hugs back automatically, and his shirt drifts up. Bucky slips his hand under the shirt and runs his hand up Steve's spine, which feels so straight and strong, he can feel new muscle under his hand, the strength Steve has hidden under his skin. He stops the motion and puts his head right on Steve's shoulder and neck, listening to Steve breathe. It sounds deep and even and steady, not even the faintest rasp or sign of discomfort. He can hear Steve's heart too and something clicks in his chest. 

“Sorry,” he manages at last through the swell of relief and longing and sorrow and pain and _relief_. “I was- I was scared it- that maybe one day you would- it would be too much? After all you went through, you were- you were really fucked up, medically." Bucky thinks of days, weeks, he couldn't visit Steve because he caught something that should have been eradicated decades ago. He thinks of the times he and Steve stared at each other through shut and locked windows, Steve covered in mumps or chicken pox and writing messages on notebooks to press against the glass just to talk to each other. He thinks of the times he was able to visit, the horrid struggled rasping of Steve breathing, the pale and sweaty skin of fever, the sometimes delirious mumblings, the way Steve's heart used to jump all over the place unnaturally. He thinks of the time Steve collapsed in the street when Bucky was in the hospital, the fact that Steve's fucking heart stopped in his fucking chest, the heart surrounded by lungs that barely worked at the best of times, in front of the crooked spine, right above the stomach full of ulcers, the blood in his veins anemic, the head that was just as messed up, colorblind, and fucked up vision and the one working ear. That stupid joint that liked to pop out whenever it pleased, the flat feet that made running and everything harder for Steve.

"You used to say you didn’t expect to make it to twenty, so fuck the consequences, but I don’t know if I could live without you anymore," Bucky admitted.

Steve's hug increases in strength, showing Bucky just how much that changed “I’m not plannin’ on goin’ anywhere. Till the end of the line, right?”

“Thought we might be on a short rail line,” Bucky replied quietly.

“Not anymore, you hear? You got me for good. I’m as healthy as a horse. Better, even.” Steve pulls back, looking him in the eye. “Neither of us are goin’ anywhere, you get me? I’m not dying any time soon, and you bet your ass you’re not goin’ anywhere either. We’ll get through this. However long it takes, we’ll figure it out.”

Bucky nods even as his vision blurs with tears, because it- it- “It’s just- so hard,” Bucky manages. “It hurts. Everything does.”

“I know, I know,” Steve agrees. “But you’re stronger than you think. You already deal with all this bullshit just by yourself, but now you have friends all over, and we want to help you, you know that. We’ll help how we can.”

Bucky sniffs, wipes his face off, and nods. He clears his throat. “We should keep goin’,” he says. “We’re almost there.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Lets go.”

When Bucky gets to the place he always wants to avoid, he slips inside and grabs his board, avoiding everyone and everything, quickly fleeing. Steve, who was waiting outside and had this concerned look on his face as he considered the facility, is quick to smile when he sees Bucky again.

Bucky then leads Steve to the skate place. He pushes inside, nods to the cashier, and enters the actual skate area. He quickly spots Nat talking to Sam and another boy, a white kid with sunglasses who’s holding onto Sam’s arm.

Bucky grinned and tugged Steve over. As soon as they were close enough, Bucky introduced everyone. “Steve, this is Sam, Natasha, and Sam’s buddy… Matt, right?”

“Yeah,” Matt confirmed. Matt, as Sam had said and as it was plainly obvious, was blind. He held his folded up cane in hand and seemed calm about the situation and the sudden arrival of newcomers.

“Nice to meet you, Matt,” Steve offers.

“And I already know your dumb ass,” Sam teases Steve, kicking at his shin. “How you been doin’?”

“Just swell, you?”

“Good, actually, I’ve got cool classes,” Sam replied. “Hey, there’s a counter-protest setting up to face off against a Pro-Life protest on a Planned Parenthood if you want to steal a riot shield again,” he added, grinning like a hyena.

Steve rolled his eyes.

“What?” Natasha said, speaking Bucky’s thoughts out loud. Stole a riot shield?

“We met at a protest,” Sam explained. “He stole a riot shield, threw tear gas back at the cops, hit a cop, and stole a shield.”

“What is the matter with you?” Bucky said, aghast, and Steve laughed like the question didn’t need an answer, just a reaction.

Natasha smiled in glee. Bucky could see her mentally evaluating him and deciding him adorable and fun. “I like you,” she said. “Now quick, what’s your opinion of blueberries?”

“Great snack,” Steve replied instantly. “Great with chocolate. Pie ain’t half bad.”

“I love him. He’s my friend now.”

“Sounds good,” Steve agreed. “Hey, uh, thanks for keepin’ an eye on Buck for me. Means the world.”

Natasha nodded. “Somebody has to.”

“Ay, somebody outta keep an eye on you two asshole,” Bucky protests. “Stealin’ a fuckin riot shield, you maniac.”

Steve laughed and then looked at Matt again, who seemed amused. “So, hey, Matt, do you skate or...?”

“No,” Matt replied. “But, Natasha told me that we have a mutual in the rafters and I’ll join him in a minute.”

Steve looked up. Bucky did too, spotting the grinning blonde who seemed all too happy to be sixty or so feet above them. Clint, Bucky remembered. He jumped from rafter to rafter with ease, clearly enjoying himself. “I see him-” Steve started and Natasha looked up too, waving.

“I don’t,” Matt said suddenly and smiled widely at the silence that followed. Bucky did that several-blink-very quickly because _what_ and _oh my god are you serious._

“You’re fun,” Natasha said. “I’ll keep you.”

Steve continued after recomposing himself. “But I’m afraid of heights.” Yeah he is, Bucky watched him couple stories down into an alley and break his leg, no kidding the kid’s afraid of heights. “Gotta leave that to you, but good luck with that, yeah?”

Matt nodded and tilted his head up. “Clint, how do I get up there?”

“Go around the edge, to the back right corner, there’s a ladder up the ramp and you can climb into the rafters.”

Matt nodded and flicked open his cane, letting Sam direct him to the wall before following it confidently, head high and certain. He made the turn at the other end of the stretch and headed to the back.

Natasha looked back at the group. “I figured we’d chill here for about forty minutes and then head to the park.”

Steve checked his watch and sighed. “I gotta be back by six. Probably why we never met. Sam says you have whatever until then and that’s my ‘be home’ time.”

“Well, that still leaves us plenty of time,” Natasha assured him. “Come on, boys, let's go shred it.”

And they do. Sam, Nat, and Bucky grind it up, showing off a bit for their respective friends despite Matt not being able to see what Sam, or anyone else, is doing. He does seem to be having fun with Clint up in the rafters, however, so that’s a bonus of whatever that was.

They headed everyone out the door and started to the park. Feeling lazy, they all sat on the grass under a tree and talked about random things. Things that didn’t really mean anything or funny stories. Bucky and Steve tangled together, enjoying being within touching distance for the first time in years.

The group gets familiar with each other, finding out some simple facts and stories and the kind of character they all possess. Matt seems to bond with Steve quickly, and Natasha just adores Steve because of how rebellious and fluffy he is. Clint and Bucky get friendly too, talking about how Clint was in the circus and how they both knew Nat.

Sam and Matt leave first, then Steve and Bucky, leaving Natasha and Clint to do whatever after Steve regretfully says that he’s had to go home or he’ll get in trouble.

Bucky goes home to find Rumlow with words on his lips. He comes to at night time, hours later, cuffed to the wall with a bloodied back and Rumlow swears walking over to send him down again.

“Forget it Rumlow. Let the boy finish the punishment.”

“Sir?”

“Order comes from pain, Rumlow. Think of it as incentive for the boy to keep in line as well. I’m tired of this pausing to fix the boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky’s mind goes numb after ten lashes, hot and cold pain making his back feel like he laid down in coals and blades. His legs tremble. He starts slipping away at twenty, the collar choking him as he sways. At thirty, his back is numb and his face is slack and he can’t count anymore and his wrist was dislocated, giving him enough slack to stand flat-footed on the floor and not have problems breathing.

Rumlow stops.

He walks over and unclips something on the collar and Bucky, no longer supported by the line, falls to the ground in a bloody heap. Two men pick him up and as Bucky looks around of office, spotting Pierce frowning at a file and glancing at the computer, he lets out a broken sob.

* * *

Turns out Sam and Steve know a guy named Rhodey who they want to invite to their meetups. A nice guy they helped out during the summer. Rhodey, they explained, would probably bring his buddy Tony because they were best friends, maybe together in some way. Instead, Rhodey brought Tony _and_ this guy named Bruce.

Bucky observed the trio as he ate fries at the local shwarma place. Tony was a loud excitable chatterbox, wry and witty and sarcastic. Bruce was the quiet type, murmuring answers, and shying easily. Rhodey seemed glad to be there, and he seemed to enjoy discussing rockets and robot. They were great company, none of them stared, and Tony even offered Natasha blueberries. Tony was… incredibly blunt, but nice to listen and talk to.

Things are going okay, mostly.

Bucky isn’t the kind to just get randomly attached to people; he hates adults more or less, the kids at the high school are annoying as fuck and have no capability to understand any of his friends' lives, and he generally likes having small friend groups. But… this feels like it could turn into something good. Bucky has gotten good at seeing damaged people, he could see the darkness in Tony’s eyes, the wariness in Rhodey’s, and the hesitancy in Bruce’s. It was all familiar, it was in him, and all of them.

Bucky could see a bit of himself in all of them. Steve, Nat, Sam, Matt, Clint, Tony, Rhodey, and Bruce? They were all damaged, and Bucky was free to be damaged with them.

* * *

He gets back home and is suddenly covered in blood, it’s dark out and he’s lost time. Again. Rumlow leaves without a word, and Bucky makes it to the bathroom to throw up his lunch. After getting over the nausea and near-hyperventilation, leaving him feeling empty and shaken, Bucky climbs in the shower and turns it on cold, sitting in the darkness as hundreds of little needles bite through his uniform and wash blood away.

He feels exhausted. He feels cold. He just stares at his hand and the wall in turn. He hates this. He hates knowing that somebody is dead or hurt because of him, he hates not knowing what happened.

He hears someone outside the bathroom and tiredly stares at the door.

It opens and the person turns on the light quickly, leaving Bucky blinking in the wake of the flash of light. Natasha looks alarmed, eyes wide, but then she blinks at him and sighs in relief. She’s in some sort of disguise, a neat semi-formal dress, and her hair is tied back in a way that tells bucky she was wearing a wig recently. She’s got blood splatters on her face and neck, staining the dress and her arms. She’s left a smear on the wall where she turned the light on, and he can see that she’s got flecks on her boots.

“Hey,” she says.

“Day’s’it?” Bucky croaks, shivering.

“It’s Sunday,” she replies. “What do you remember last?”

“Friday, after we met up. I went back and now I’m here.”

“Oh,” she responds, then walking over and testing the water. Her nose crinkles and she makes it luke-warm instead. She pulls off her shoes and climbs in with him, sitting in her dress under the spray. She holds her hands out and lets the water wash the blood off them like Bucky had.

They sit under the spray like that for a while. Natasha watches his face, almost unblinkingly. Bucky watches her back. “The hell happened to you?” Bucky asks.

“I had a target, I was undercover, I killed a man and shot the target.”

“Oh. That sucks.”

Natasha nodded. “I… It was fine, I was doing just fine, pretending to be the daughter of some wealthy businesswoman at a party. I had a blonde wig, and I was doing fine, but then. Some guy came up beside me, groped me, squeezed my ass, and his fingers were too close to- you know, and I felt so…. Uncomfortable, and upset, and he was an adult, like, forty, so I felt all sick and my stomach rolled and he was still touching me, and I panicked and stabbed him in the neck to get him to stop. I had to shoot my target point blank and just- run. My Instructors were upset with the failure, so they told me to walk back.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say, so he just grabbed her hand and held her fingers. “I know, sorta, how you feel. It’s- it’s possible that I’ve been- I, uh…” Bucky went quiet. “I don’t like thinkin’ about it. I don’t know, not for certain. But. I know what it’s like to be violated, at least. I don’t have any natural teeth anymore. My bones are metal plated. My head is full of Nazi tech and I’m still mostly Jewish so that really isn’t fuckin’ great. They experiment on me all the time. I’m covered in scars and I can only tell you about a quarter of them. Sometimes, my body doesn’t even feel like my own. I feel like I’m in somebody else's body, or that I’m piloting a body that they own.”

Natasha was quiet. “Are we even people anymore?” she asked him.

Bucky bit his lip. “I… I wanna think so,” Bucky replied. “Fucked up people. They tell us we ain’t, and they make us feel that we aren’t, but with each other, we can pretend to be people.”

“I like that. Pretending to be people. Fake it till you make it.”

“Yeah.”

“Which sort of means that we’re not people.”

“Sort of. I don’t feel real,” Bucky admitted. “This body isn’t mine anymore, remember? But like… I think you’re a person, and you think I’m a person, and we somehow got a bunch of idiot friends that can’t see that we’re barely people, so in the end, we’ve gotta be, right? Cause everybody else says that we are.”

“Okay,” Natasha agrees quietly. “So we’re people by default. I guess. That’s enough to start with.” Natasha stands up, sending a torrent of collected water off of her, and pulls Bucky up too, struggling to get the suit off of him and throw it onto the floor with a wet sticky slap. “If we’re people, we deserve decent hygiene.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and barely sputters when she takes a soapy washcloth to his face, just keeping his eyes closed tight as she wipes off blood. She pulls off her dress and leggings and drops it next to his uniform, wiping rivets of blood of her shoulders and neck and face. Bucky hands her a bottle of shampoo and she lets him help her wash her hair. It’s stupid, and kind of clumsy, but he feels useful as she scrubs at her skin. When the red was missing from her body, she started at him, scrubbing at his clavicle and doing his hair as he got the rest. When they were both clean, Bucky leaned against the wall and just let the hot spray hit him.

She stepped forward until the water just ran over her hair and then decided that she had enough, squeezing the water from her hair as he climbed out and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around her torso. She looked at him expectantly and Bucky sighed, turning off the faucet and stepping out after her. She threw a towel at him, instructing him to dry off.

Natasha did that twisty towel thing girls do to their hair, and Bucky, having long hair as well but never having learned that, attempts to follow her motion and then looks at her in confusion when he fails miserably. She giggles at him and fixes it. He feels kinda dumb, but it’s nice to have his hair out of the way.

Natasha steals some fresh clothes, wearing Bucky’s jeans and shirt and taking one of his jackets, leaving bundles of clean clothes on the floor, minding the bloody footprints she left. Bucky sits on his bed in a pair of pajama pants, a t-shirt, and a big hoodie with the hood over his head, a nice pressure on his head and neck, blocking some of his peripheral vision, making it all seem less. He watches as she shoves her wet disguise in a spare plastic bag and ties her boots together. Bucky comes to a realization and as she passes him, to exit the same way she came in, through the window, he grabs her wrist.

“Please- please don’t go,” he asks pleadingly. “Please, just stay.”

Natasha pauses and looks at him. He can’t tell what she sees in his expression, but it makes her face drop from calm focus into a broken mix of indecision and misery. At last, she drops the bag and shoes and slips the jacket off. She crawls onto the bed with him, kicking the covers out of the way before flopping down onto her side, yanking the blankets back up, and opening her arms, like an offer. Bucky doesn’t resist the urge as he climbs under the covers, putting himself a bit lower, so he can tuck his head under her chin, nose to her clavicle, wrapping his one arm around her waist, as she holds him, back, hand pushing his hair back.

“Thank you,” Bucky mumbles, and she replies in Russian. He understands it to be something of an ‘of course’ and a ‘there's not a place in the world I’d rather be.’

They don’t speak, both pretending to try to fall asleep, but Natasha’s nails bite into his back as she manages her breathing, he can feel her sort of shiver and shift and can feel the tension in her body from the events of the day. Being sexually harassed by some creep, killing two people, one of who probably deserved it, but beyond that?

His hand is holding so tight to her shirt it’d tear if she tried to move away, pretending he doesn’t feel blood crusting under his fingernails.

Bucky sleeps well for once, and he doesn't know if it’s her doing or just luck, but he knows tomorrow, he’d go to school and his friends will be there, Sam and Steve and everybody else, and things might be mostly okay.

Except… didn’t he have homework? Shit.

* * *

 


	2. Once a day, don't you wanna throw the towel in?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “See, based off your file, I’ve concluded that you don’t know what it’s like to not have to fight against something. Your great-grandmother forced you to fight horrible illnesses, your personality and rather small frame forced you to fight bullies and you’ve picked out fights all your life, your previous foster parent forced you to fight against starvation and now you're here and I have no battles to present.”
> 
> Erskine spread his hands as if to show just how few instances of retaliation he’s presented Steve with.
> 
> “You are, quite simply, a standing army in times of peace.”
> 
> Steve wipes his eyes and his shoulders drop a fraction. Erskine isn’t wrong, but having the truth spread out like that just makes him feel stupid. All his life he fought for something and now he just waiting for something that might not even happen.

 

* * *

Steve was, maybe, a little bit confrontational.

It’s not his fault, though. From what his (great) grandmother told Steve about his mother and father, picking fights is just a Rogers thing to do, whether they marry into it or not. His ma sometimes threw a punch if the situation called for it, his dad decided to go fight an entire war, and Steve sought out bullies like some kinda fucked up asthmatic bloodhound.

But that was… just what he did. For like ninety percent of his life Steve had been fighting, so it was just the thing he felt he needed to do. It was mostly poor impulse control, but it was that coupled with how he was just used to fighting all the time. He fought for his life, he fought to get bullies to stop hurting other people, he fought to convince the world that he wasn’t a breakable doll, he fought to show that as long as he had a pulse and blood in his veins, he wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

He was, also, dead convinced that since he came into this world kicking and screaming and covered in blood, he’d leave it the same way. In fact, he preferred it. Better than in the hospital with tubes shoved down his throat and an IV drugging the lucidity out of him because his body decided to kill him. Fighting, though one of his more destructive qualities, wasn’t something he regretted.

Living with his (great) grandmother wasn’t bad, but he knew her methods were wrong. Sure, she was kind and provided him with everything he needed, but she also took him to ‘Pox Parties’ and those other kinds of meetups. Steve caught whatever he was supposed to every single goddamn time and it was a miracle he survived. He knows two kids that died after going to those. So, yeah, he was pretty damn upset. He couldn’t go to school with Bucky, first off, because vaccinations were required, so homeschooling was it for him.

Grandma Rogers loved him, she taught him Irish Gaelic and topped him off with English, and fed him and clothed him, even got him his glasses, and was always there to scold him for getting into fights. She let him dye his hair and get a black leather jacket to put patches on it. He loved her, of course, but… he also despised her methods, her thought process, her stubbornness. Because of her unwillingness to get any of Steves conditions medically treated, beyond his sight, his heart condition got bad enough that he had _sudden cardiac arrest_ when he was _twelve_ . She hurt him pretty bad through that kind of neglect. He almost _died_. It was a miracle the ambulance got there on time.

The hospital had tried to help, tried to tell her to get him vaccinated and medications or treatments to help, but she was dead convinced that the body could get over anything, cardiac arrest included.

The doctors were appalled. Steve was pissed.

He’s been upset with her for as long as he could figure out that there was a reason to be upset, but this was really pushing his buttons. After his grandma left the room, Steve had looked at his doctor tiredly through his glasses, steel in his spine. “It’s only six more years,” he said firmly.

The doctor's eyes showed shock and horror and he uneasily slipped Steve some papers that told how he could prevent a repeat that didn't actually help as much as either of them wanted. Steve and Grandma Rogers’ already shaky relationship didn’t exactly improve from there.

That was actually just after Bucky and his family were in that train accident. It was horrible, hearing about what happened, how Bucky lost his whole family just like that. Steve could scarcely believe it and he hurt inside, remembering how kind the Barnes’ family was to him, how they let Steve come over all the time and eat food and play with Bucky. He grieved for his friend, for the loss of people close to him. The doctors said that it’s possible that stress had exacerbated his condition, which kind of made sense.

Because Bucky was going into foster care, Steve was sure to get his email before he left. He’d never needed it before. He could just jump over to the apartment opposite his and tap on the window to see what was going on, but that wasn’t an option anymore.

Bucky and Steve were released around the same time, give or take a few days. It was the last time Steve saw Bucky and it made his heart hurt. Over the course of the year after Bucky went into foster care, they emailed each other so often the only person in Steve’s inbox _was_ Bucky. Steve wasn’t great at making friends, with the fighting and all.

Also during that year, his relationship with Grandma Rogers tanked.

There was hardly a moment they weren’t arguing over vaccinations and how shitty Steve’s quality of life had become. He was projected to die before he hit twenty, hell, fifteen, even and that made his blood boil, his life felt stolen from him and Steve started lashing out. He didn’t mean too, but it was hard not to when Grandma Rogers was going on about how vaccines cause autism and how Steve should be grateful that she prevented that in him. Going on an on with all the misinformation despite Steve actually doing the research and providing all that evidence.

“Yeah, well I’d rather be autistic than have to drink those stupid liver extract drinks every day to stay alive!” Steve had snapped, stand up so fast his glasses almost slid off his nose, and it had all gone downhill from there.

His colorblindness, scoliosis, astigmatism, partial deafness, flat feet? Those he could forgive, he was born with those. But everything else had a treatment he was being denied, or his numerous forced illnesses caused other things, like his heart troubles, and it was slowly killing him.

He was so angry and bored that he started staying up at night to do pages and pages of research, finding reliable sources and information and then slapping it on the table in front of Grandma Rogers and then storming out of the apartment to go buy a soda at the corner because he’s too pissed to go through every page and explain to her how she’s killing him. He thinks she reads them, but she never says anything. She’s a Rogers, she’s stubborn. Maybe she doesn’t want to admit that she’s wrong, even if it kills him.

He’s homeschooled because they won’t let him at a regular school, so he doesn’t have a lot of interaction with anybody besides Grandma and their tense relationship. He isn’t able to hang out with Bucky, so he just starts doing stupid self-research projects like the ones he makes for Grandma, filling up notebooks and papers with a bunch of nonsense he learned on a topic in particular. Mostly history. He likes learning about history.

He sets up some social media accounts because he’s online so often. He gets a twitter to follow the news, and he gets a tumblr to unwind and reblog history stuff, socialist junk, funny shit he finds, news articles he finds interesting, personal rants on the government and how it’s terrible and what they should do better, social justice stuff, and the like, going by the username brooklynfistfighter.

Bucky’s apartment stayed empty for about a month before a new tenant moved in. Steve only noticed because he was sitting on the fire escape one day and looked in to see furniture, some boxes, a desk. He didn’t want to be curious, but he kept watching, wondering what kind of person moved into Bucky’s old home.

After a while, an impressive middle-aged white woman walked into view in a neat business dress, arguing over the phone with somebody. After a while, she hung up and huffed in frustration. That’s when she noticed Steve, staring through the window. Suddenly he felt embarrassed, so he averted his gaze, waved, and went back inside.

Barely a week later, Steve was getting his ass kicked in that same alley. The fella he was up against was about six or so inches taller than him, with meat on his bones and a solid left swing that broke Steve’s nose pretty good and made his glasses go off God knows where. Steve took a second on the concrete of the alley to regain his senses, feeling the grit between his fingers, the blood dripping down over his mouth and chin and forced himself back up to his feet, a bit dizzy. He put his fists up again, staring the boy down and spit out some blood.

“What, that the best you got, jackass?” Steve sneered and swung low and tight, into the boy's chest. It knocked him back a half step, but then Steve was kissing the ground again, not really sure if he was hit or not. His lip was definitely split. Steve had a moment to remember that Bucky wasn’t here to kick this guys ass to bail Steve out of the mess he got himself into, but his face hurt too much for him to get really nervous about that.

He started to get up, but the boy kicked him in the side, his stomach, and flipped Steve over with the force, making him sprawl and knock a trash can over.

Steve scrambled to his feet and lunged, popping the boy right in the jaw before he could block Steve’s fist. But he then put both hands flat on Steve’s chest and shoved him, hard. Hard enough that he hit his head on that trash-can as he hit the pavement.

Steve blinked to see the boy advancing on him and instinctively curled around his head as he saw the boy draw his foot back. Oh, this is gonna hurt, Steve thinks, wishing Bucky was back and-

The kick didn’t land. Why can he hear skin hitting flesh? Steve peaked out of his safe cocoon and saw a blurry figure, the woman from Bucky’s old home, beat the kid off with her purse. She fights efficiently, brutally. Steve was surprised to see the dame kick the kid's ass in such a sophisticated manner. It was incredible.

When the boy ran off, she huffed and then turned to Steve.

She said something, but his messed up ear was to her so he didn’t quite hear. Steve blinked and pushed himself up, not looking away, he turned to the side and spat out some blood, more like a sputtery spray, bringing up his hand to wipe at his face, which likely just made it more bloody. He pushed his blue hair out of his face to get a better look and squinted.

“Sorry, what?” Steve tilted his head the right way. “Hey, you see my glasses anywhere?”

“Ah, yes, here they are, no worse for wear,” she replied, holding them out. Steve didn’t know she was British, but he likes her accent. It’s all posh and stuff. Sounds real classy. Steve slipped the glasses on and found that the lady was in a nice formal black dress suit, wearing pearl earrings and a necklace and looking like a million classy English pounds.

“Are you alright, dearie?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” he replies awkwardly.

“Of course, it wasn’t a fair fight at all, now was it? What even were you brawling about?” she asked, dusting off her purse before slinging it over her shoulder.

“He, uh, kicked the alley cats. A couple come ‘round here, sweet lil’ things, just homeless. So I told him to knock it off and he pushed me so I hit him and well, this.” Steve motioned to the alley.

The lady smiled, almost amused. “Well, for being such a defender of the innocent, I’ll get you all cleaned and patched up. We’re neighbors, after all. Those are my alley cats too. Seems polite.”

“Um. Sure, yeah, thanks. If I came home like this, my grandma would shout at me till my other ear was deaf too.” Steve stood and brushed the dust off of himself.

The lady laughed. “What’s your name, dearie?”

“Steve, Steve Rogers, ma’am, I’d shake, but my hands got blood on ‘em.”

“You can call me Peggy, Peggy Carter.”

“Sure thing, Miss Carter. Hey, I like your necklace.”

“I quite like your jacket,” Miss Carter said with a smile. “Could I barter for a trade?” she asks, amused.

Steve looked down at it, his big black leather jacket, the one with the grey hood. Over the years he’d grown into it a bit and added patches. One had a knife and a rose crossing, proclaiming ‘ _delicate but deadly_ .’ The anarchy symbol, the ‘ _In Memoriam_ ’ folded flag patch, and a few small circular patches reminiscent of boy scout badges.

Steve had been a boy scout… for about three days when he was six, or something. He got kicked out for starting a fight. Steve can’t quite recall what it was about but knew it wasn't good. Maybe it was homophobic insults, that’s a boy-scouts thing. He found the patches online, ‘ _Alternative Scouting Merit Badges_ .’ He had ‘ _grave robbery,’ ‘violent revenge,’ ‘cryptozoology,’ ‘arson,’ ‘mob justice,’ ‘time travel_ ,’ and ‘ _invisibility_.’ He was very proud of them.

He also had some pretty cool pins. _“Nevertheless, she persisted.”_ A snake in a slight loop pattern saying _‘Do no harm, take no shit.”_ A patch with _“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”_ A realistic heart proclaiming _‘Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful.”_ A uterus labeled _‘Grow a pair.’_ A patch that reads “ _Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery. -Malcolm X_ .” And, finally, a light pink pin with a switchblade saying ‘ _If he puts his hands on you, cut them off.’_

“Nah, it’s mine,” Steve says. “But your offer was tempting.”

Miss Carter laughs. Miss Carter was a real nice lady. She let him wash off his face and knew how to set his nose. Sure, grandma would still be pissed, but less so if he was patched up. Once Steve has an ice pack pressed against his eye and face, and a nose cast, Miss Carter put a cup of tea in front of him, a little thing of sugar and cream on the table beside it. “Better?”

“Yeah, thank you,” Steve mumbled.

“If you need to wash your shirt there’s a washer and dryer-”

“I know where they are,” Steve interrupted, waving the offer off. “S’fine.”

Miss Carter looked at him. “How’s that now?”

“My- my best bud, Bucky, used to live in this apartment. I’ve been here lotsa times. His birthday parties, his Bar Mitzvah, just playin’ around, y’know.”

“Did he move?”

“No,” Steve said. “There was an accident. Train accident, an avalanche, I think. His parents died, he was in the hospital for a while. He got put into foster care.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s fine,” Steve insisted. “You didn’t do nothin’. I just miss him a lot. Wonder how he’s doin’. Sometimes I feel like he ain’t telling me everything when we talk, so I’m worried about him.”

“I know a little about what that’s like,” Miss Carter admitted.

“Y’know, he, uh, usually pulls me outta fights, kinda like you did. Kicks somebody’s ass, made ‘em scram, and then his ma patched me up, usually. Kinda throwin’ me off now, cause I keep pickin’ the same fights expecting him to come rescue me somehow.”

Miss Carter sort of laughed and then took a sip of tea. “You’re a half-decent fighter,” Miss Carter says. “You’ve got a lovely punch, it’s just everything else that needs a bit of work.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve said dryly.

“Oh, hush, it was mostly a compliment,” she informs him. “I could teach you to fight better, you know. I’ve actually fought quite a bit in my day. I still can, if the situation calls for it.”

“Really?”

“Sure. It’d give me something to do while I’m here. I’m here on business, for about six months. Mostly paperwork and such, it’s all quite boring, really.”

“Well okay. I don’t have nothin’ to do anyway.”

“What about school?”

“Whatabboudit?”

“I assume a boy your age would be attending school?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Nah, I’m homeschooled. I can’t go to regular school ‘cause I’m not vaccinated.”

“Well, whatever for?” Miss Carter says, looking vaguely alarmed.

“Grandma is an anti-vaxxer, I just never got ‘em. I know it’s insane, but I can’t do nothin’ about it right now, so I’m just gonna have to deal with my medical disaster of a body ‘till I die. Which should be in-” Steve exaggeratedly checked his non-existent watched. “Five years. Docs gave me till I was 18, I mean, first it was ten, but I hit that landmark fine. Well, the cardiac arrest mighta pushed me back to fifteen, but I ain’t planning on dyin’ that soon. That’s just disappointing.”

Miss Carter looked stunned.

“Wha’sa matter?” Steve asked.

“Your life, apparently. Heaven’s sake.” She took a second to stare at the wall and then looked back at Steve. “Well, a deal’s a deal. You can come along over whenever you like and I’ll show you what I know.”

“That’d be really cool,” Steve said honestly, smiling. “Thanks.”

So, every day, after he’s done with what he’s supposed to do, homework and reading and all, he jumps over to the opposite fire escape and knocks on the window. Miss Carter is one hell of a fighter, even if she is middle-aged. She shows him how and where to hit, how to get a good kick in, how to use his environment to fight, and she makes sure the practice isn’t gonna kill him. It’s a lot of fun. She’s also pretty interesting to talk to, tells him about the fights she got in when she was younger, beating up a guy with a stapler even. It’s pretty cool to hear her recount the brawls she used to get into. Sometimes when Steve comes over there’s another lady with Miss Carter, some pretty dame named Angie. Steve is fairly certain that they’re dating or married, but he can never tell which because Miss Carter doesn't wear any rings, says they get in the way, which sort of implies that she has some or used to?

Miss Carter really doesn’t talk about the work she does, says it’s for the government, says she was monitoring some stuff, it’s all really vague, but Steve’s not stupid, he knows that she’s armed at all times, a gun in her waistband, one taped under her table, another in a drawer near the door. It’s pretty neat if worrying. Maybe she was CIA or something. It might explain some stuff.

Either way, Steve slowly starts winning some of the fights he picks. It’s nice to not have to scrape himself off the pavement every time. Miss Carter seems proud, tells him he’s a good student and not to be a prick and start fights, only end them.

Four months into her six-month stay, she gets a call as she’s teaching him some tricks. She doesn’t really excuse herself, she just picks it up and starts talking. Steve sits on the ground and absently watches her.

“No, get one of the interns to do the research, I don’t have time to look up obscure facts about chemical plants causing global climate change through waste dumps. Of course, we know that they’re doing it and we’re working on bringing them to justice, but we need proof and research to do it and I’m working on proof! So talk to the int- Steven? Where are you going?” she asks, surprised as she watches him work his way to the door.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quickly. “Promise, just hang on.” And he went back home. He rummaged around his notebook stash until he found the one he did on chemical dumps and brought it back. Miss Carter was still on the phone, so Steve just held the notebook out for her to see.

Miss Carter read the cover and blinked. “On second thought, I might have a solution. I’ll get back to you.” She hung up, tucked her phone away, and took the notebook from Steve’s hands, flipping through the first few pages. “You’ve… researched chemical plants dumping chemicals?”

“Yeah, uh, when I’m frustrated and bored, I ain’t got much else to do, so I start lookin’ stuff up to be mad about.”

Miss Carter looked impressed. “Might I have this? It would be incredibly helpful.”

“Yeah, sure thing. Wouldn’ta brought it otherwise.”

* * *

Two months later, whatever business Miss Carter was doing in Brooklyn was finished with and she was moving back out. It was a pretty big bummer, but there wasn’t anything Steve could do about it.

“Now,” she says. “You know I can’t really tell you anything, but I appreciated your help and I had a lot of fun training you. So, if you ever need a hand, just call this number and I’ll pop over as soon as I can.” Miss Carter handed him a blank business card with a nearly printed number on it.

“Thanks, Miss Carter,” Steve replied, putting it in his pocket.

“No, thank you, Mister Rogers,” Miss Carter says with a smile. “You be a good boy and keep practicing. I’ll see you later, without a doubt.”

“Okay, I’ll see you later then,” Steve agreed. “Safe travels. I’ll miss you.”

She opened up her arms and he hugged her. It was nice and firm and she smelled like really expensive perfume.

* * *

Half a year passes and he’s endlessly bored. All he has to do is internet stuff, school work, or practicing the fighting stuff Miss Carter taught him. He and Grandma Rogers still have a tense relationship, so the times they hang our are short and end up with arguing.

Then, one day, Grandma Rogers goes out to get groceries and doesn’t come back. Steve has this terrible feeling, anxiously waiting on the couch, his leg bouncing as dread fills his stomach and his mind provides him with situations that might have happened. His fears are confirmed when a police officer comes to collect him when it’s dark and tells him that Grandma Rogers had a heart attack at the supermarket and didn’t make it.

The hours after that are a blur, but he knows that he had an asthma attack at some point. It isn’t a good 24 hours and he’s fairly certain he punched a nurse. He calmed down after having a fit and hyperventilating until he passed out, which was impressive considering his asthma. He woke up in the hospital with a CPS agent waiting on him.

CPS was appalled that he had basically never been vaccinated. He was appalled too, of course, but he had been since he knew what a vaccine was. Tired, he just asked for them to do anything and everything they wanted, he was sick of being forced to be sick.

So he got all his shots, got medication, got physicals and professionals to make sure he could be around other people and not make them sick too, and he was released into the world like a vengeful, grieving, pissed off butterfly ready to fuck everybody up. He even got a hearing aid. It was a life changing experience. He could hear out of both ears at long last and that’s just swell. And there was the whole thing where Steve didn’t have to drink liver extract or whatever it was every day to keep his anemia from killing him. A blessing, truly.

But he missed his home. He missed Bucky. He missed Grandma Rogers too.

He flipped the business card around in his hands and decided that this wasn’t something to bother Miss Carter about. He could handle it on his own.

The day he was taken to the new foster house, he was wearing his black boots, his worn and torn jeans, a white shirt, his dad's dog tags, and his leather jacket. The car ride was dull and quiet, he kept fiddling with his fingers or his pins. Steve flipped the mirror down and checked his teeth, then playing with his hair, still holding a little purple from the last time he had it dyed. Steve peered out the car window, watching houses go by. He didn’t really want to talk to his agent. Hadn’t felt it necessary. He was just driving Steve and his duffle bag to a house.

Steve only took what he needed. He had his dad's burial flag tucked safely in a special pocket, clothes, his iPod, which he used to connect to the internet, a few books, a handful of photographs, a few notebooks and a few of his favorite research folders, a first aid kit (for himself to patch himself up after he’d inevitably got in a fight), his inhaler and a shit ton of meds, his sketchbook and art pencils, a baseball, catcher's mitt, and baseball bat, his compass (his father's, with his mother's picture in it) and the handkerchief with the bi pride flag on it that he kept in his pocket.

He also had about a hundred and ten dollars in the secret compartment in his bag. Allowance money.

They finally pulled up to the house and got out of the car. It was a big two story building with the sounds of kids ricocheting around. If Steve had to gander a guess, he’d say about three people. The CPS officer led him to the door, the couple, Mrs. and Mr. Alexson, greeted him with warm smiles. They were remarkably slim, Steve noted. Both white with blonde hair, though Mrs. Alexson’s was darker, more dirty blonde, and Mr. Alexson looked like his was bleached.

Steve said hello politely and they showed him to the room he’d be sharing with another boy. The girls were in a different room, the one next to theirs. It was nice enough, with a desk and two beds and a dresser. The other boy, Arnie, had put down tape separating the room. Steve shoved his bag under the bed and followed Mr. Alexson for the tour. He waved bye to the CPS guy and then went to finish the tour.

The house was neat and clean, practically bleached, and Steve had to double take at the kitchen.

At first glance, it looked perfectly fine. At second glance, the handles on the cabinets had a wire like lock threaded through them, secured with one heavy duty padlock. A thick bike lock on the fridge prevented anyone from getting into it. Maybe… four locks total, but a lot of cabinets was secured with just one because of the lock. There was not a single piece of food lying around, no fruit bowl or anything.

That… was a little concerning.

Steve couldn’t be sure though, so he didn’t say anything. There were also about… six dozen crosses in various places. Sure, Steve was Catholic, went to mass with grandma every week, but it felt like the cross was watching his every move.

The house didn’t have a sign of being occupied by a kid, except the backyard, which had basketballs, soccer balls, and a football lying around.

The three kids were playing basketball, shouting and laughing and teasing each other. They looked pretty happy. Maybe whatever was up with the kitchen wasn’t that bad. Arnie was maybe fifteen. The two girls were harder, but they looked about thirteen or fourteen.

“Kids!” Mr. Alexson said, getting their attention so fast it was uncanny, like watching someone get whiplash. “This is Steve, the new foster kid. Why don’t you let him play with you, get to know each other while the missus and I make some dinner, huh?”

“Yes, Mr. Alexson,” they said, words kind of jumbling together.

Steve awkwardly walked over as the door closed behind him. The kids quickly pulled him into a group, much to Steve’s surprise. The boy offered his hand. “Name’s Arnie Roth.”

“Steve Rogers,” he said as he shook. “But you know that.”

Arnie shrugs and motions to the ladies beside him. “This is Maya and Tootsie.”

Maya had dark skin and brilliant dark eyes with flecks of gold in them. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and braided down to her shoulders. Tootsie was latina and had thick-framed glasses, almost matching Steve’s own.

“It’s a nickname,” Tootsie said. “It was my favorite candy when I was little. Could never eat enough of them. My parents just started calling me that. If you want it shorter, Toots is fine too.”

“So, uh, how’d you end up in the system?” Arnie asked.

“Grandma died. Last relative.” Steve shrugged. “Heart attack.”

“Damn, kid. Mine just hit me and the cops got wind,” Arnie said.

“Sorry,” Steve offered, face twisting in concern, not really sure how to comfort the other boy.

“Ain’t your fault. I’m not getting beat black and blue anymore, so whatever, right? Alright, now listen up,” Arnie said. “I just gotta warn ya, you do everything the fosters tell you the instant they say it. If you talk back, you’re gonna regret it, I promise you.”

“Uh, can I ask why?” Steve responded, frowning.

“Not to them. To us? Sure. You saw the kitchen right?”

“Yeah.”

“To them, food is a- a luxury. It’s bad enough that they systematically give you a certain amount of calories to maintain weight, but, well, you know how when mommy or daddy got mad because you broke something you didn’t get dessert?” he said in a high pitched voice.“That happens with whole meals.”

“For real? They can’t do that,” Steve protested.

Arnie shrugged. “They’ve been doing it. Look, just do what they say and you’ll probably be fine. It’s not that big of a deal, but you have to know. Now, I gotta tell you the rules-”

“I’ll tell him. You always forget the little stuff,” Maya said, bringing up a hand and starting to tick off on her fingers. “Okay, first, bedtime is nine thirty on the dot. You should be in bed at that point or you don’t get breakfast. Every time you shower, you have to put the towel back, unless it’s gross, and make sure everything looks like it did when you went in. And leave the fan on, for Christ’s sake. You obey every order. You don’t use the internet when you’re not allowed. That rule is fickle, though,” she said. “You just can’t get caught. You get good at it. No room is to be messy, not even your own. _They check,_ ” she stressed.

“And wake up is at seven thirty,” Tootsie added. “And you gotta make your bed.”

“Yeah. You don’t go anywhere without permission and you always have to go with someone. You aren’t allowed out past eight. You’ll get a list of chores that have to be done by the time specified or you don’t get food. You don’t eat food other than what you get from the Alexson’s. Not even at school.”

“Mrs. Alexson is a teacher and monitors lunches,” Tootsie informed Steve. “She’ll know.”

“You don’t ask for seconds. Ever.”

“If you don’t get certain grades, you don’t get food until they’re up. They check every day on the parent grade site.”

“Always use your manners and never talk back.”

“Showers are ten minutes, no more.”

“Oh, and we can’t go into the master bedroom for anything.”

“I think they have a sex dungeon,” Arnie adds and throws the basketball right into the hoop. Steve grimaces.

“Ew,” Tootsie said blandly. “Oh, and really, don’t even argue with them. Not even about politics or who you are as a person. If they say you like something, you love it.”

“Oh, and don’t be queer, if that’s at all possible,” Maya said, deftly pulling Steve’s pride flag out of his pocket. It must have shifted when he was walking. She waved it around and shoved it against his chest.

Steve blinked. “Jesus.” He deftly shoves it back in his pocket, all the way down. “For real? They’re like that?”

“Sure are,” Arnie scoffed and starts dribbling the basketball. “The four-hour conversation of the sin of sodomy was just as thrilling as you’d expect.”

They played around for a while, talking about school and what they like to do, and what they want to be. Steve said he wanted to be an artist, or maybe do something in research, and offered to show his sketchbook sometime.

Dinner was… small. He had a precise amount of green beans, a small cut of steak, some salad, and a glass of water. Steve liked to think he had a big stomach, but this… was sad. Steve was the kinda kid who’d try to eat an entire platter of ribs or race through a pie competitively, even if it messed up his stomach. What was on his plate was depressing in and of itself. It made him actually feel upset.

They all had slightly different amounts, but it was just a little too little for the person eating. Even for Mr. and Mrs. Alexson. That explains why they’re so damn thin.

“So, Steve, did you have fun playing with Arnie and the girls?” Mrs. Alexson asked, smiling. Steve hadn’t noticed how expressionless it had been before.

“Uh, yes, ma’am,” he said, finishing his last green bean and spearing some leaves.

“That’s good,” she said. “I really hope you like it here, after all. Wouldn’t want anyone being rude,” she said pointedly. Arnie did not make eye contact. He gripped his fork like a lifeline and tried to eat faster without being noticed.

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve replied.

“I hope you’ll get all your things straightened up too,” she added. “I know we rushed you to the tour, but I expect your bag to be unpacked as soon as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said automatically.

She smiled, and Steve didn’t find it reassuring. In fact, he just felt uneasy.

After dinner was TV time. They watched some cartoons and talked about nothing in particular while 9:30 approached. At nine, they went to work getting ready. Pajamas, brushed teeth, washed faces, (medication taken), and in bed before the untold alarm went off. Steve quickly put away his clothes and books, but shoved everything else into drawers haphazardly and put his empty duffel bag under his mattress. He put his hearing aid on the desk, now uncomfortable with the lack of sound from his right ear, followed by his glasses.

Arnie was already trying to get to sleep, by the looks of him. Well, he was a blurry figure, but still.

Mr. Alexson stepped in and smiled. “Night kids,” he said warmly. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“Night Mr. Alexson,” Arnie said, and Steve hastily repeated the words. The lights turned off, the door shut… and locked.

Steve blinked in shock.

“To make sure we don’t sneak downstairs for food,” Arnie explained quietly. “If you gotta piss, you go out the window. They don’t expect us to go at night.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Steve hissed.

“Nope.”

“Jesus,” Steve said again. “Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

“Listen, this is the first house I’ve been in where I haven’t been hit. I don’t wanna risk it. Besides who would you believe, capable foster parents, or some dumb kids about food and locked doors?”

Steve would trust dumb kids over adults any day because adults have never done shit for him, they lie and cheat and make bullshit excuses and ruin the world, but that seems like a personal opinion right now. “Fine,” he sighs. “What's the internet password?”

“Healthyhabits, no caps, no spaces,” Arnie replies and turns over to go to sleep.

Steve wants to punch himself in the face at that response, but he ignores the urge and quickly emails Bucky.

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey, I got to my foster home. The fosters are weird about food, so that’s whatever. How have you been doing?_ **

Steve put in an earbud, flicking through his music because it was nine thirty, he isn’t going to bed right now, are you insane? He has a good handful of artists. Panic! At the Disco, My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, Imagine Dragons, P!nk, Against Me!, a few solo songs, and a random assortment of dubstep and electro swing music.

He puts on ‘Raise Your Glass’ and opened up his tumblr, scrolling and reblogging as he goes.

_“Riot, riot, turn off the lights, we’re gonna lose our minds tonight, what's the dealio? I love when it’s all too much, 5am turn the radio up, where's the rock and roll? Party crasher, panty snatcher, call me up if you want gangster! Don’t be fancy, just get dancy! Why so serious?_

_“So raise your glass if you’re wrong in all the right ways! All my underdogs, we will never be, never be, anything but loud and nitty gritty, dirty little freaks! Won’t you come on, come on and raise your glass! Just come on, come on, and raise your glass!”_

* * *

The next morning they got cheerios. Very specifically measured, milk too. Skim milk. Steve was partial to 2% because it tasted better, so he was a little disappointed. Basically, the only thing he wasn’t was lactose intolerant so he wanted to enjoy that, dammit. Well, he also didn’t have food allergies, but everything else.

“Steve,” Mr. Alexson said. “We’re getting you registered for school soon, but until then, which should be next week, I hope you’ll be able to lend a helping hand around the house.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” Mr. Alexson praised.

Mrs. Alexson packed the kids lunch bags and left for school soon after, kissing her husband goodbye and waving to the kids. A little after she left, the kids did too, taking their lunches and leaving Steve alone. “Hey, Steve, can you wash the dishes, dry them, and put them away? I want to take a quick shower,” Mr. Alexson requested.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks,” he said and walked off. Steve quickly went to work. Washing, drying, putting away. He wiped down the sink after he was done too, just to be safe.

Mr. Alexson came back with damp hair and in clean clothes. He smiled. “Thanks for doing that. I meant to take a shower yesterday and it slipped my mind. Anyway, I’m going to be working in the garage. If you need anything, that’s where I’ll be.”

“Okay, thanks,” Steve offered.

“Oh, and to keep you busy for a while, do you mind doing a few things around the house?”

“Sure,” Steve allowed, even though he really didn’t want to.

“Great. Here, I’ll make a list.”

Mr. Alexson grabbed a pack of sticky notes out of the kitchen drawer, a junk drawer to be certain, and scribbled a few things. “Here you are. Thanks for helping out.”

Steve gets the impression that it isn’t really helping out. The list included dusting the living room, vacuuming the halls, wiping down the bathroom with antibacterial wipes, wiping off the baseboards in the dining room, and wiping down the window sills.

Steve sighed after Mr. Alexson was out of his small hearing range and went to work. Steve finished cleaning around lunchtime so he at first planned to make some food, but then he remembered. Steve felt weird about asking if he could have some lunch, especially if Mr. Alexson is working, so he just went to read in the living room.

He owned a copy of the Hobbit that he loved to death. It used to belong to his mother, the pages are worn and loved, but after she died, well, it went to his grandmother, technically, but he always thought of it as his own. He loved the idea of a fantasy universe, of mythical beings and giants and wizards. He liked drawing characters and giving them names and backstories.

Lunch came and went, leaving Steve hungry and grumpy. Mr. Alexson had come inside and eaten a sandwich, sort of ignoring Steve in the way that told Steve that he knew Mr. Alexson didn’t notice him on the couch. After that happened, Steve knew that the man had to have made some sort of connection. What kinda guy eats lunch and doesn’t think about the foster kid who can’t eat unless you unlock a cabinet?

So Steve was upset, in the kinda burning way that makes you hyper-aware of your neck and skin. He fiddled with the dog tags and checked his email quickly.

**gotacouplebucks@****mail.com**

**I’m okay. Miss the hell out of you. Foster house is what it is. Kinda hope I move soon, but whatever for now, right?**

**punkkid1918@****mail.com**

**Yeah, miss you too buck. Hope everything ends up okay. As soon as we turn 18 or are close by, we gotta team up again, just like old times, right?**

After he sent the message, Steve turned to scroll on his Tumblr again, bored. Eventually, the other foster kids came home and a few hours after, Mrs. Alexson did too. Steve went up to his room with Arnie and fumed for a second before blurting out, “Mr. Alexson didn’t give me lunch.”

Arnie froze and looked at him. “What?”

“He didn’t give me lunch. I don’t think he forgot, he came down to make himself a sandwich, and, y’know, he had to have made some connection, right? Do you think he just forgot?”

Arnie shook his head. “They don’t forget about food. Even when I came here he got me lunch. The girls too. Like, they remember about food.”

Steve frowned. “You sure? Like, his schedule is probably different now that I’m here so I wouldn’t blame him if it slipped his mind because I was here when he wasn’t used to a kid there at that time.”

“No, Steve you don’t understand, that ain’t true for him. Even when I came here, and Maya, he remembered. I don’t think you’re gonna get lunches,” he stressed it, worry in his voice as he looked down at Steve.

“Then what the hell?! Why not?”

“I don’t know… maybe… you could ask about this one. But do it nice, for God's sake.”

Steve crossed his arms and fumed for a second. Not getting lunches? What the hell!? Steve was fourteen, he was still probably growing. He wasn’t gonna get by on two meals a day, what the hell is this? Steve spent some time sketching before they were called for dinner, creating a dragon of graphite while he pondered the situation and where it might lead.

Dinner was tomato soup and grilled cheese.

Mrs. Alexson smiled at him. “Thanks for cleaning up the house today, Steve. You did a great job on the windowsills.”

“No problem,” Steve offered and then considered his next words. “Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but I was wondering why I didn’t get lunch today. I know I’m not supposed to touch the cabinets and I didn’t want to bug Mr. Alexson about it,” he said innocently, purposefully making his eyes wide and apologetic.

“Oh,” Mrs. Alexson said. “Right, I must have forgotten. So, well, you’re a little guy, Steve. You don’t really need a lot of food, so we don’t want to waste food that you don’t need on you,” she explained.

Steve couldn’t help his shocked look. Her words cut deep and mean. Steve wasn’t a waste of food. He was a human being. Withholding food from him was probably against the Geneva Conventions. Yeah, he’s small, he only weighs eighty pounds, but he could gain weight and be healthier for it. Two calorie-counted meals a day would make him waste away.

Steve furiously, at first, considered letting it happen and just passing out someday so she could see what would happen and have to take him to a hospital, but he decided that he didn’t actually want to almost die of malnourishment. “Oh, okay, I understand,” he lied, not understand at all.

“We just don’t want you getting fat,” she continues. “You’re a great weight right now, for your body type at least.”

What the fuck. That was blatant fat-phobia and just plain wrong. Now, Steve had been pretty careful about swearing. He thought it would be rude, that swearing really wasn’t necessary, but now he’s pretty done with that rule. Swearing is an open season from this point on. His mind is going fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou nonstop, and it’s doing wonders for his fury.

Maya, Tootsie, and Arnie look stricken and glance his way, but don’t say a word, clutching their plates just that much closer.

“In this house, we believe gluttony is the worst sin,” Mr. Alexson announces. He had a knife in hand, and he was carving a block of wood. A small one, for a small cross. Apparently, he was some kind of carpenter or whittler.

“I hope you’ll vacuum that up when you’re done, honey,” Mrs. Alexson requests.

* * *

Monday next week makes things a little better. Steve is going to be a freshman at whatever high school this is and he isn’t going to get lunch. It’s fucking bullshit. Steve was pissed and stewing in resentment.

Mrs. Alexson left early, to get to school and set up, and Steve went to the bus stop with Arnie, Maya, and Tootsie. In a way, his classes give him a chance to forget about what’s happening at his foster home, but they also make it harder to ignore his growling stomach. Luckily, he has the same lunch as Maya and joins her for it. Since he isn’t eating, he works on classwork and homework.

He does spot Mrs. Alexson, watching them like a hawk. Maya barely manages to pass him a carrot and he chews as he bites the eraser of his pencil, giving the illusion that he’s simply chewing his pencil.

By the time he gets home, he’s half furious and hungry enough to eat a horse.

The days blur by in anger and hunger, enviously watching the other eat, glaring at the fosters when they weren’t looking and barely managing to resist swinging his baseball bat at heads.

Maya comes home with a C on a math test and Steve watches as she sits with them for dinner, no plate or food in front of her. She’s got shame and anger in her eyes too. Steve is a little better at math than her, so she comes to him to get help understanding what she missed, what she should study and beat it into herself that bad grades equals no food.

Once when his hearing aid battery was low, it shouted ‘LOW BATTERY’ right into his ear, scaring the shit out of him and making him drop a plate. No breakfast.

About two weeks after he starts school (missing two days out of the twelve when he gets sick) he gets in a fight.

There's this asshole, Benjamin Georges, who likes to harass the Muslim girls around the school, yanking on their hijabs, saying that the Muslim students were gonna bomb the school, a whole bunch of other stuff, and even though Steve snaps at him to knock it off, he never does. His posse just laughs and urges him on. Steve reported the behavior to the teacher, but he never did anything. Steve doubts he even talked with Benjamin about it.

So, when Steve sees Benjamin bullying a girl in the hall, two of his friends laughing as he terrorizes the poor girl, on the way to history class, he sees red. The girl has tears in her eyes and is desperately trying to keep her hijab on her head as Benjamin yanks on it and laughs, sending the occasional pin to the ground. Steve throws his backpack off, runs as fast as he can, and jumps, putting his feet out first. A decent dropkick, to the best of Steve’s ability, just like how Miss Carter showed him.

Benjamin goes reeling, knocked down onto his ass, and Steve smacks into the floor with a thud. Since Benjamin was yanking the hijab, it rips off and the girl shouts, “Hey!”

Steve hastily scrambles up and shucks off his jacket. Not his leather one, his thin blue cotton zip-up jacket, and starts putting it over her head, not looking at her hair. “Here, use this and go! Keep it!”

She blinks wide eyes at him, sees Benjamin getting up, and nods, running off. Benjamin punches Steve in the face just as Steve turns to look at him and when Steve finds himself on the floor again, he tastes blood from a split lip, a dull pain coming from the impact. Steve shakes his head, a bit stunned, and then stands quickly, bringing up his fist and stocking Benjamin in the jaw, swearing and throwing punches as Benjamin spits slurs and curses at him and knocks him to the ground.

People are shouting and cheering around them, egging Ben and Steve on, chanting ‘fight, fight, fight’ and the words buzz under Steve’s skin. Steve tackles him at one point and they roll over the ground. Benjamin is a big guy though, so he quickly pins Steve and starts punching him across the face over and over until a hall monitor rips him off and separates the two of them.

They’re sent to the office immediately.

Steve finds himself with an ice pack next to Benjamin in front of the principle, an ache burning up the sides of his face, holding his glasses loosely in his hand, squinting to see. Steve runs his tongue over his teeth and is relieved that none are loose, but he bit his tongue and can taste copper. Benjamin looks ready to kill him.

“I’d like to start by saying I am very disappointed in the both of you,” Mr. Regency says. He’s an older, middle-aged, white guy with brown hair and green eyes, a sharp chin and a fat nose, looks a bit like a dodo. “I do not tolerate fighting in this school and this,” he waved at them. “Is unacceptable. You will both be getting detention-”

“Hey, don’t you wanna know _why_ we were fighting?” Steve protests. “He was bullying-”

“I don’t care,” the principal interrupts sternly.

“Oh, so you accept bullying, but don't accept fighting,” Steve scoffs. “That’s a real great policy, I’m sure the teenage depression rates thank you often.”

“Do you want more detention?” The principal scolds.

“If you keep this up, I might,” Steve snaps.

“That’s two weeks detention then. Every lunch period you will report to the detention hall,” he announces and Steve fights not to rolls his eyes. Like what was he even doing at lunch that he wasn’t already?

The principal turns to Benjamin. “Since this boy is clearly the one who started the fight, I’m only giving you three days of detention. I don’t tolerate fighting, but I’ll accept the excuse that you were defending yourself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Benjamin says and smiles evilly at Steve.

“Suck an egg,” Steve spits.

“Mister Rogers!” the principal snaps. “You’re dismissed, Georges. Rest assured, I won’t be calling your parents this time.”

“Thank you, sir,” he says, and quickly leaves.

“And you, young man,” Mr. Regency says, turning to Steve. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Steve leans forward in grins, knowing full well that there's blood in his teeth. “I’d do it again in a hot second and there ain’t a damn thing you can do to make me regret it.”

The principal looks troubled.

Mrs. Alexson stumbles into the room. “Steve!”

Steve looks at her, face going blank.

“You are in a lot of trouble, young man!”

Steve starts laughing, and he can’t explain it. He knows that he isn’t getting dinner, and he's burning from the inside. But this moment? It’s fucking hilarious and he doesn’t have a damn clue why. When her face screws with fury, he knows he might not get breakfast either.

Maya pockets a celery stick for him. Arnie sneaks him a salt and vinegar potato chip. Tootsie hands him a yogurt packet from a school lunch. It’s warm, but it’s undoubtedly the most delicious. That night, as Steve lays in bed with a growling stomach clawing at him, he starts planning. He wasn’t going to take it anymore. He’s gonna solve everybody’s food problem and he ain’t gonna get caught. He sits up, grabs his glasses, pulls out his phone for a light, grabs a notebook, and starts working.

* * *

In the morning, Mrs. Alexson is still mad. Mr. Alexson is carving up some wood, knife flashing through the air and digging into the block. _Scrape, scrape, cut._

Steve is so hungry he’s almost willing to fucking eat that block of wood. If he’s been hungry for the last few weeks, now he’s starving. It fills him from head to toe, making his fingers hungry too. The smell of toast in the kitchen makes him vibrate with it so he has to bite his fingers lest he steal it from Maya’s fingers like an animal. Instead, he drinks three cups of water just to feel like his stomach isn’t a black hole. It doesn’t help.

He’s also tired. He stayed up late trying to figure out a foolproof plan for them to be able to get more food. He looked up food banks, first, but remembered how supermarkets often throw out the food they deemed not fit for sale, despite edibility, and looked up the locations of the ones closest to the house. He also had to figure out a good timetable for each of the other foster kids to perform pickups.

“The thing is, Steve, this is your punishment,” Mrs. Alexson says frankly as he asked for something small, anything, really. “You were fighting, and that is not okay, no matter what.”

“He was yanking off Kamala’s hijab,” Steve explains, angry and not hiding it.

“Oh, so it was just a Muslim?” she says, looking irritated and annoyed at him and his tone. “You started a fight over a Muslim girl?”

“That he was bullying,” Steve protests. Mr. Alexson’s knife flashes, accompanied by an ominous grinding sound and Steve glances at him nervously.

Later, when they’ve waited for the bus and gotten on easily, Steve gets the attention of his fellow foster kids. He leans around his seat, noting the graffiti on it in vague interest as he thinks over what he plans to say.

“Alright, let's be frank, we’re all sick and tired of not getting fed, right?”

They nod, carefully looking around and leaning closer.

“Well, I’m not standing for it any longer. I’ve got a plan to make it so we can eat three times a day. Well, maybe not me, but still, more food. I have notes and everything. It can work. First and foremost, places where we can get food for cheap. Food stores throw out a ton of perfectly good food all the time. If we can find a steady supply of dented cans, maybe make friends with an employee, we can hide food in our rooms. Our beds have box springs. We can cut holes in the bottom and store food there. If we’re running low and need to pass food back and forth, I’ve got a plan to punch a hole in the wall under Arnie’s bed. We can paint a sheet of paper the same color as the wall and tape it over so it’s practically unnoticeable. With that, we can store stuff in the wall too, if we do it right.

“If it comes to it, we can even put food on the rooftop,” he said. “We’re on the second story. All I need is a boost. I know you all have friends. I think they’d be glad to help out too. Ask them the give a can or two. It’s important that it’s nonperishable. If the Alexsons smell rot, we’re screwed.”

The kids look startled by his plan but are already agreeing, nodding with hunger in their eyes.

“If worse comes to worse, if we have no more, we can unscrew the hinges on the cupboards or fridge,” Steve adds. “But that'll be harder, so I prefer those first few options. I have schedules planned out that work, would make sure we wouldn’t get caught, we’d avoid the Alexons’ altogether and they won’t notice a thing if we do it right. Now, who knows their way around town?”

* * *

Between several food chains, they’ve got ten cans of food and are eating mildly bruised apples. There’s juice dripping down his hand because Steve isn’t taking his time at all, he feels like if he doesn’t eat it fast enough it’ll vanish from his hand. He eats so many apples that he feels sick, a painful twist in his full stomach. He feels such relief from having food in his stomach that he wraps his arms around himself as if to keep it in and keep it in place. It’s like silencing a piercing sound once and for all, cool relief, if accompanied by uncertainty.

Maya, beside him, has cracked open a can of green beans and is using her bare hand to shovel as many into her mouth at one time as possible before slamming the juice back like a shot.

This outing happened before school. Since the school is only a twenty-minute walk away, so they arrive just as the bus does, giving the appearance that they came with it. Steve’s bag is heavy with cans, and he can’t stop smiling. He’s got food, he’s got a plan, and he’s gonna get a real meal at the end of the day. He missed seven meals in a row and he was really close to eating his hand this morning. He read somewhere that biting off a finger is like biting a carrot.

The hunger just doesn't leave, that’s the problem. It’s everywhere. He ate an entire piece of _paper_ in math class yesterday and he can’t help but feel like a weirdo for doing it. He did it subtly, ripping tiny bits off and putting them in his mouth, so nobody looked at him funny.

He’ll eat dinner tonight, sure, because the Alexsons have boundaries, even if they’re shitty, and maybe a can of corn or peaches, whatever tempts him the most tonight. His mouth waters just thinking about it. Dinner is a quiet affair, and Steve gobbles his small fajita down like a drowning man, practically licking the plate clean. No, actually he _does_ lick his plate clean, but subtly, again.

The next day Maya and Tootsie ‘accidentally’ break a window playing football outside. While the Alexsons are busy chewing them out, Steve and Arnie kick holes in the wall under Arnie and Tootsie’s beds. They stuff half the cans in the wall, tape up paper over it, pink and blue, like the color of the walls, and push the beds back just in time. Steve barters at school and buys a can opener from that one weird kid that sells shit. Nice guy, but the can opener was a pretty specific order. Steve stashes that in the wall too.

Suddenly, things aren't so bad anymore. Steve and Arnie and Maya and Tootsie switch up who goes to get cans from the stores based on the day and Steve’s schedule, so the Alexson's never noticed any consistency to the times they leave home or arrive at school or vice versa. Sometimes Steve can’t pick up a shift because he got sick again, but most of the time things go according to plan.

There's this one employee, Tina Argots, who takes pity on them and keeps the rejected cans in a special box for them to pick up. Soon there are so many cans in the wall that they can start putting food in their beds. Food continues to stockpile, so they have to hide it in more places. Crumpled granola bars are taped to the top of ceiling fans, discarded books from the library have spaces cut out to house fruit snacks and kept in the desk in Steve’s room, packets of obliterated ramen are hidden in the back of the sock drawer.

Somehow, between the fighting Steve does every now and then, his ‘talking back’ when he argues about not being able to dye his hair because of their queerphobic ideas, the average grades Maya gets, Arnie’s accidental ‘rudeness,’ and Tootsie’s showers that go on a little too long or poorly vacuumed floors, things are going great.

Steve even goes out and gets his ears pierced, pissing the fosters off and losing food privileges for two days.

“Get those out of your ears right now! What makes you think we’re okay with- with- with _desecrating_ your body?”

“Screw off, it’s my body and I’ll do what I want with it!” He snapped back. He was promptly pinned down, the earrings taken out of his ears, and were never seen again. The holes closed up.

The problem is Mr. Alexson. He’s gotten… more concerning. That knife is always out, carving wood and scraping off shavings. He’s gotten more intense, precisely measuring calories and making sure every morsel is accounted for. He himself has gotten a bit thinner and he kinda looks like a vampire. One of those stereotypical ones. Tall and white and thin with a sharp narrow face and cold eyes. Steve has the idea that the guy knows something is up, but can’t prove it.

He’s started a chart of the food that everyone eats each day and the calories that they get. He interrogates the kids each day when they get back from school, asking if they ate anything in class. He points the knife at them as he says it, but Steve thinks he doesn’t realize it. Luckily, the kids are really good at keeping secrets and lying. Comes with the territory.

Steve shoves his granola bar wrapper under his mattress and relaxes as he savors the flavor of chocolate and peanuts. Arnie’s stomach growls. He forgot to wash the dishes immediately after Mrs. Alexson told him to and didn’t get dinner.

“Grab something out of the wall,” Steve offers with cheeks filled with food. He finishes chewing and swallowed quickly. He licked along the inside of his mouth, getting the bits of chocolate that stuck to his teeth.

“Actually, had a better idea,” Arnie said. “You’re a light guy, right?”

“Yeah, 83 pounds,” Steve says. “Gained a couple recently, though. ”

“And I play football,” Arnie says. “I can lift you easy, right? Here’s my plan. We order a _pizza_ -”

Steve’s attention has been gotten, snatched right out from under him, ears on Arnie as he speaks. The fosters never order food. Never ever. Steve hasn’t had a pizza in maybe four months. The best he’s gotten was a cupcake for Maya’s birthday. Not the same thing, but it was the only unhealthy thing he’s eaten since he was here. Everything else, even the things that seem like they aren’t the healthiest, are homemade with all natural ingredients and the most natural and healthy version of wherever it’s supposed to be.

“We put in the special requests that he park two houses down, I hold you out the window, you whistle to get his attention, pay for the pizza, and I pull you back up. We can pass the pizza back and forth to the girls, right?”

“You’re a genius. This is after bedtime, right? The fosters will catch us if we try this before then.”

“No fucking doubt,” Arnie agrees. “I’ll tell ‘em and get orders. I’ve got five bucks in my drawer, you cover the rest?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “No problem.”

After the adults are in bed, supposedly, Arnie orders the pizza on his phone. Half cheese, half pepperoni, small. Special requests, park at 104, walk over to 108, and that they’d meet them outside with cash. It’s dark out, so Steve has to keep a close eye out for lights but when he sees headlights that stop and turn off, then see a man with a box Steve quickly finds himself upside down out a wind, whistling sharply and catching the guy’s attention. Steve sputters when the dog tags hit his glasses and he pulls them off, wrapping them around his hand. His glasses threaten to slip off of his face, but he pushes them up and they stay.

Steve waves the pizza guy over as Arnie keeps a tight grip on his legs. The guy hesitantly walks over after Steve flashes the money. “Small half cheese, half pepperoni pizza?” the guy asks nervously.

“You got it. Here’s the money, keep the tip.” Steve forked over ten dollars. “You’re a lifesaver, pal.”

The guy looks up to see Arnie and then over a bit to see the girls leaning out the window, looking hungry. “Havin’ a secret party or something?” the guy chuckles awkwardly.

“I wish,” Steve said dryly. “Night. Drive safe.”

Arnie tugs Steve up and through the window, where the pizza plops on the desk, window open to suck out some of the delicious cheesy smell. Steve crawls under the bed with two slices and passes them to Maya and Tootsie's hands. They get their second pieces minutes after.

The pizza is gone in ten minutes and Steve is in heaven. He’s never had greasy pizza so good before, so filling and perfect. He can taste garlic and tomato sauce and oily mozzarella cheese. He might be having a religious experience and thanks God for their good luck getting that pizza. The heavenly aroma fades quickly, but the high remains.

Arnie burps and then starts snickering. Then he lets out a sniffle.

“Are you crying?” Steve asked, sitting up a bit.

“No,” Arnie says with a choked up voice.

“Liar. What’s wrong?”

“I- I’m actually full. For the first time in like a year,” Arnie chokes out and laughs. “I forgot how that felt. God..”

“Same,” Maya says through the hole in the wall. “Steve, this food stashing thing is fucking genius and Arnie, you have the best ideas. That pizza? To die for. I think I’d kill a man for that.”

“I would kill for that,” Tootsie said. “I am not fucking around.”

“Are you both under Tootsie’s bed?” Steve asked.

“Hell yeah, my man, we’re sharing peaches.”

Steve hums appreciatively and licks his lips. The syrup from that is the most refreshing corn syrup filled thing. Steve doesn’t blame them one bit.

The trash they've been gathering has been carefully disposed of at school, excluding wrappers. Cans have been recycled after being transported via backpack. Might as well take care of the environment with all the canned food they’ve been eating.

The pizza box is hidden on the roof, covered in the leaves that have accumulated there and haven’t blown off and probably won’t. They can’t throw it out yet. Steve is pretty sure Mr. Alexson is checking the trash cans.

* * *

On a beautiful Saturday morning, Mrs. Alexson informs them that CPS is coming by for an inspection tomorrow, after Mass. They spend all day cleaning up. Vacuuming, wiping, disinfecting, straightening, dusting, etc. They’re exhausted by the end of it. Steve’s hands hurt, his back hurts worse than usual, he’s got a blister on his thumb, his feet feel achy and sore, and his stomach has been a little funny all day.

The place is spotless but the Alexsons keep finding shit for them to do. It’s really annoying. Vacuum the garage, rake the yard, clean every window, etc.

After they get back from church, which was just _eh_ that day because Steve was worried about this inspection, they find themselves relaxing in the living room, reading or talking about school. When the doorbell rings, Steve notices the other kids stiffen and try to act natural.

The CPS agent, a woman this time, enters with a warm greeting and a smile, joining them in the living room. The Alexsons go to the dining room, just outside the living room so the CPS lady can speak to them while listening in.

“Hi, guys, I’m Petunia Malgrave,” she says. “How’s your day been going?”

The kids murmur a general ‘okay’ or ‘good,’ and she nods.

“That’s great,” she says. “Now, I know this is a little short notice, but we’ve gotten wind of some complaints. People calling us to tell us about some things that have been a bit concerning.”

The kids stiffen very subtly.

“Yeah? That’s weird,” Steve says for them, taking charge of the situation. “Everything's been just swell,” he insists.

“That’s what we thought too, but do you mind explaining some things just to make sure?”

Steve eyes the other kids and motions with his hand a bit for them to settle back. “Sure,” he replies.

“Well, a teacher at your school has called us in with the concern that you aren’t eating at school, Steve. Is it just a misunderstanding…?”

“Yeah,” Steve says quickly. “I’m just not really hungry at lunch. I get a big breakfast,” he lies easily. “And I’m kinda small, you know? I don’t need much to keep me happy.”

She nods, frowning a bit as she scribbles on her clipboard.

“Now, uh, Tootsie, was it?”

She nods. “Or Toots if it’s easier,” she offers.

“Thank you,” Petunia says smiling. “Now, this is from a different teacher, who said they found that you had canned food in your backpack and seemed afraid when he caught you putting them back in after they spilled.”

Tootsie had paled but responded. “Donations. I promised to deliver them for another class.”

“Oh, that clears that up,” Petunia said. “Okay, and last thing, the latest. We had a… pizza guy call in a delivery that rubbed him the wrong way? Said you were sneaking it in?”

Steves insides go cold and everybody looks scared to death all of a sudden. The silence is loud and his heart is pounding in his ears. At once, they look at the fosters, who have their ice like eyes on them. Mr. Alexson’s knife is stuck in a piece of wood and he’s twisting it back and forth. Steve feels real fear at that moment. He’s scared that the fosters will starve them for this. He’s scared that they'll find the stash, start doing searches, making their intake smaller so they waste away. He’s scared at Mr. Alexson might go at someone.

“They must have mixed up the address,” Steve stutters out. “We don’t order food in this house. It’s not healthy.”

The other kids nod enthusiastically. “It’s gross,” Arnie adds shakily. “Mr. and Mrs. Alexson make us really good dinners.”

Maya and Tootsie give murmured agreements, not looking up at the agent.

Petunia is giving them an odd look, but says, “Okay! Glad to have that cleared up. It’s just we have to investigate when we get enough complaints. Sometimes it doesn’t pan out. Hey, how about you show me your rooms?”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

The train of kids and a single adult trod upstairs and Steve shows her around, hoping she doesn’t open any books because half of them are stashing food.

She does.

Fuck. Steve stares in terror as a granola bar and several fruit snacks fall to the floor. Arnie swiftly kicks them under the bed with all the grace a football player can have. He doesn’t look at the food on the floor, he just keeps his eyes on Steve or Petunia.

Petunia looks at Steve and her expression tells Steve that he’s not hiding a single emotion on his face.

“What’s this?” she asks calmly.

“S… They don’t like when we have snacks like that because they have too much sugar,” Steve says. “So we get ‘em from friends and save them for bad days.”

“Clever,” she says and sits on Steve’s bed.

Oh, no. Steve sometimes feels the cans through the mattress, because he’s been stockpiling. She winces and bounces slightly, frowning. She reaches down and hooks the sheet of the box spring, finding the hole there.

Steve watches as she reaches in and pulls out a can opener and a bent can of Spaghettios.

She looks at him and Arnie. Maya and Tootsie watching from the other bed anxiously. Steve looks around for help and can’t find any. He doesn't know how to explain that.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do. He had plans in place, they were working. This wasn’t something he expected. He should have kept the cans in the wall like he was supposed to, that was the plan for the cans because he couldn't have a mattress that was too lumpy, but the floor creaked in the middle of the room and he was scared of making too much noise at night to get food.

“What’s this all about?”

Steve stares, cold and anxious to his bones. He can feel the blood drain out of his face.

She stares right back. “How much food is hidden in this room?”

They can’t answer. They don’t answer.

“Listen, I want to help, really do. If something is going on, I can help,” she says pleadingly.

Steve is frozen, he can’t move, oh, God, he doesn’t want to have hunger clawing at his stomach again, having to drink gallons to prevent his stomach from cramping, he doesn’t want to be hungry in class, unable to focus because he’s seriously considering eating his test or pencil, she can’t help, she can’t-

“They don’t feed Steve lunch,” Tootsie says suddenly and Steve’s head whips around to look at her, wide-eyed and a little betrayed.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks quietly, lowly.

“Mrs. Alexson works at the school, she’s a teacher, she makes sure he doesn't eat lunch and we don’t share with him,” Maya shakily adds. “She says she doesn’t want to waste food that he doesn’t need because he’s small.”

“One time Steve got in a fight and he didn’t eat for two days.”

“Steve gets in a lot of fights. He doesn’t eat for a lot of days.”

“I- I’m bad at math. When I get C’s on things, I don’t eat dinner.”

“If our grades are low, we don’t eat until they’re up, sometimes for days.”

“They padlocked the fridge, lock the cupboards, and the meals are small. If we don’t do things immediately, we don’t eat,” Arnie says quietly.

They look at Steve. “The wall is full of food,” his voice cracks as he admits it. “We’ve got ramen in the sock drawer that we eat dry. I bought a can opener at school so we can eat the cans we find in the dumpster behind the supermarkets. There are granola bars taped to the fan.”

Steve’s voice trails off. “They starve us so we don’t get fat,” he says meekly. “So we had to figure something out.”

“Please… I don’t wanna be hungry anymore,” Maya whispers. “If you leave they’ll take the food and we won’t get it for days.”

Petunia looks shell-shocked.

“After all we’ve done for you,” a dangerous male voice says from the door and Steve whirls around to see Mr. Alexson, standing tall and terrifying by the door with his knife and Arnie. His knuckles are bloodless around the carving knife and Steve knows the guy’s snapped. He’s got Arnie by the shoulder and the blade could slice and dice any second. The cold look in his eyes is tinged with crazy and Arnie is shaking by the wall, eyes on the knife inches from him. “You just couldn’t be grateful.”

“This- food,” he spits. “Gluttony! And in this house, that’s the greatest sin. That makes you sinners and sinners belong in hell.”

Oh, shit he’s batshit crazy. For real. He’s gotten obsessive. He checks the trash cans, he has Mrs. Alexson sit with them at lunches to keep track of their food, he watches them like a hawk, he questions them after school every day. But Steve never expected this, not for him to go full on ‘sinners go to hell and I have a fucking carving knife’ crazy.

Realistically, Steve knows this might not be mental illness, this might just be some fucked up religious extremism in its own way accompanied by maybe something else, but this is insanity.

“Oh, shit,” Tootie said, horrified and repeating Steve’s thoughts. “He snapped. He’s crazy! Maya, move!”

Steve grabs his bat in a flash and brandishes it. He’s not scared anymore. He’s angry, and it’s burning up his crooked spine. He was scared they would find out, that they wouldn’t feed them. He wasn’t scared of this, of a fight, so he’s forgotten to be.

“Get away from Arnie,” he says dangerously. He’s aware of Mrs. Malgrave dialing the police, but he isn’t focused on that.

“There's only one way to put a sinner in hell,” Mr. Alexson growls, lifting the knife and putting it dangerously close to Arnie’s throat.

What was that about not regretting fighting?

Steve swung the bat fast as a whip, smacking the hand with the knife in it so it flew from Mr. Alexson’s fingers. Arnie dives toward the floor and Maya and Tootsie grabbed at him, pulling him closer to Petunia. Alexson backed off, hissing and grabbing his wrist. His gaze snapped to Steve and he lunged, grabbing the bat as it swung again and tearing it from Steve’s fingers. He grabbed Steve by the shoulders and threw him into the hall. Steve slammed into the wall and slid down, barely dodging a kick as he scrambles out of the way. The drywall cracks and Mr. Alexson yanks his foot out of it.

Is the guy wearing _steel-toed boots?_

Unfortunately, Steve scrambling back put him far from the knife and Mr. Alexson close to it. Mr. Alexson grabs it and rushes Steve. Steve barely has time to step back, but Mr. Alexson just about tackles him and they both go down the stairwell. Tumbling head over heel, Steve had no idea which way is up. All he can see is blurry motion, he lost his glasses, and he can hear shouting and swearing, but he just wraps his arms defensively around his head and finds the breath knocked out of him at the bottom. He’s feeling the bruises from that alright, but he’s still more concerned that Mr. Alexson is straddling him with the knife in hand, poised to strike down.

Steve twists in time and feels the knife strike through the flesh of his shoulder instead of his heart.

He screams against the pain, though. It’s sharp and hot and feels wrong. It smarts like a mother fucker, so when Steve tears Mr. Alexson’s arm off the knife and bites hard, he feels really good about it. Except for the spurt of blood and taste of metal and the feeling of his teeth sinking into flesh and getting close to bone. It’s gross and blood spurts out the side of his mouth.

Mr. Alexson shouts and starts punching Steve in the face. Steve tries to squirm out from under him and cover his face, but it’s not easy because moving his arm makes sharp agony role over his torso and neck and he’s still a bit dizzy from the pain. He thinks he manages to punch Mr. Alexson in the side of the neck.

Luckily, that’s just when the cops kick open the door and start shouting for Mr. Alexson to put his hands up. They tackle him off of Steve and pin him to the ground, reading him his Miranda rights as he swears and struggles, cuffs snapping around his wrists. Steve lays on the floor, eye swelling shut and a familiar tightness in his chest. He pats his pocket and brings up his inhaler, taking a puff, holding it, and then doing it once more.

A cop crouches by him and says, “Hello? I’m Officer Toby, can you hear me, kid?”

Steve gives a thumbs up and a bloody smile. He feels his split lip and turns his head to spit out Mr. Alexson’s blood. “Yeah, I’m cool,” he replied. His vision is a little wobbly, he feels a bit cold, and he doesn’t think he could stand if he tried, but he isn’t actively dying. Or maybe that is what this is.

Mrs. Alexson passes by with the cops, cuffs on her wrists, protesting loudly and losing her heels in the process.

“You have a knife in your shoulder and you’ve been beaten up at the very least,” the officer says.

“Okay, it could be said that I’m a bit hurt,” Steve says. “You know where my glasses are?”

An EMT shows up and starts surveying the damage. She herds the cop away and asks him a few questions. She finds that he has no concussion, but the wound on his shoulder needs medical attention soon, and the rest of his injuries are bumps and bruises.

“So can you fix me up right here?” he asked. “If I don’t have to go to the hospital, I don’t wanna.”

She frowns. “No, you need to go to the hospital. You have a knife in your shoulder, Steve.” Steve gives her a doubtful look. “No, I’m serious, you have a knife in your shoulder, we need to make sure he didn’t sever anything important,” the EMT says meaningfully.

Tootsie, Arnie, and Maya come down the stairs and find Steve getting put on a stretcher, blood oozing around the knife.

“Holy shit dude, you saved my life,” Arnie says, leaning over him with wide eyes and a pale face.

Steve made a gesture with his good arm because he can’t focus well enough to make a precise motion or give the OK sign. “Just doin’ what anyone else woulda.”

“Uh, no, anybody else would've panicked or flipped their shit.”

“Those are the same thing,” Tootsie informed Arnie.

“We’re going to have to move you to different houses, as the Alexson’s are both probably going to jail on child abuse and neglect charges. Oh, and assault with a deadly weapon.” Petunia says. “Attempted murder.”

The EMT says, “I think it would be good to have you all checked out for other signs of abuse.”

Oh yeah, Steve’s bleeding out a bit. They’re actually getting Steve into the ambulance, he zoned out for a moment there. Didn’t really notice how they were outside.

Petunia says, “I’ll follow you in my car with them.”

Steve still didn’t have his glasses.

* * *

They fix up Steve’s shoulder, finding minimal damage, and let him out in the morning with stitches, bandages, medication, and a sling. Someone even got him his glasses, which, admittedly, were slightly broken, because they were missing a lense and it couldn’t be found, but having one eye that worked was better than none. The rest of the kids were completely fine. Steve thinks that without his plan, they would have found mild malnutrition as well, but as it were, they were eating more food.

Steve is allowed to go back to the house and pack up. The others already have been placed elsewhere with their things, having said their heartfelt goodbyes at the hospital. Arnie left the can opener on Steve’s bed, and honestly, he feels like that an honor. They also cleared the food out of the walls, all of which was stacked on the kitchen counter and being photographed by a detective as evidence.

After Steve has all his things, he’s driven to his new foster house to be released to a new guardian. Realistically, anyone is better than the Alexsons, but there’s a sense of apprehension there. He doesn’t know what to expect next and it makes Steve’s stomach twist. His next foster parent a man named Dr. Abraham Erskine. He’s German, which is interesting, and very welcoming. He’s something of a doctor or scientist. Biochemistry.

The house is smaller, a one story building that’s quite cozy and well-lived in. Steve notices on his tour that he doesn’t lock his cabinets, and has a whole bowl of fruit out for the taking. Steve gets settled in a new room, a nice yellow, he thinks, and eats a full sized lunch for the first time in months, practically drooling over the amount and scarfing it down despite eating only a few hours ago. Erskine doesn’t mention his swollen eye, his split lip, the bandage displayed on his shoulder with only the strap of his tank top covering a bit of it and the sling holding his arm up and making sure he doesn’t move it too much. Steve notices his worried looks though.

He eats so much his stomach hurts, but he doesn’t throw up, just needs to lay down for a bit.

So things are looking a bit up. That night, he looks at himself in the mirror, gives his best game face, and swallows his handful of meds before passing out in a new bed that smells like fabric softener and peaches.

* * *

He gets a week of recovery time before he goes to his new high school to finish freshman year. In that week, he’s gotten to know Erskine pretty well. And he got new glasses, which was nice.

Erskine’s… unbelievably giving and kind. Steve snuck into the kitchen at one in the morning to rummage around the kitchen, eating bits of this and that. Carrots, chunks of cheese, a slice of ham, down some juice right out of the bottle. He grabs a can of green beans, a can of corn, and a handful of granola bars, putting them in the sling to hold. It was always a good idea to be prepared. He just had to get a bit ahead of the game, he told himself.

The light flips on and Steve whirls, freezing and almost falling off the countertop where he’s crouched because he wasn’t quite tall enough to get the granola bars.

Erskine yawns and rubs his eyes, squinting at Steve.

A granola bar slips out of Steve’s sling, bounces off the edge of the counter, and skitters across the floor to Erskine's feet. The man stoops low and picked it up, squinting at it. “Oh, you don’t want these. They’re gross. I don’t even remember when bought these. I just left them in there when I discovered that they were bad tasting and didn’t throw them away because I was too lazy to.” He yawned again and rubbed his eyes. “Try the other cabinet, the blue box. I got those last week. They’re chocolate.”

Steve’s heart squeezes in his chest when he opens the other and sees that, yes, there is a blue box and there are chocolate granola bars. He puts down the others and takes five of the new ones, mumbling a ‘thank you’ to Erskine and going to his room to stash it, feeling caught and anxious and ashamed and stupid for getting caught.

It isn’t even mentioned the next day. Or the next.

Erskine is so nice that it hurts, but Steve doesn’t know how far his kindness extends. There has to be something, some trick, some fault, some dumb unspoken rule.

So Steve decides to test the man. After he’s healed enough to not need the sling, he goes out with all his money one day and comes back with a remainder of only twenty dollars, a midline tongue piercing, a barbell eyebrow piercing, and both ears decorated with an industrial piercing, standard and upper lobe, and a helix. Steve turns narrowed eyes on Erskine, daring him to say something because he forged Erskine’s signature on a parental consent form to do it.

Erskine glanced up from his laptop and desk covered in papers and notes, considered, looked back at his laptop and asked if Steve was considering any stones in the future. That’s it.

Steve blinked, unable to figure out a reply. He was expecting a demand for an explanation, to tell him to take them out, but Erskine asked him about his thoughts and plans for the piercings and Steve was so blown away he couldn’t formulate a reply.

“Maybe,” he choked out, a little off because of the new piercing in his mouth, and fled to his room because to be honest his face hurt and he wanted to suck on an ice cube to keep the swelling in his tongue down.

The swelling did eventually go down after a few days and Erskine was more than happy to help make him smoothies until he could eat regular foods again. He kept recommending new combinations, fruit, vegetables, yogurt, ice cream, chocolate. It was sort of a bewildering experience.

Starting school is pretty calm, all in all. The people look at his almost healed black eye and piercings and make curious faces, but nobody gets the courage to ask him about it. As he was in a new school, he was allowed to pick new electives. He chose German as a language. Erskine seems extraordinarily pleased that Steve decided to take German and helps Steve practice at home. Steve makes a real effort to learn because it makes Erskine happy and hey, knowing three languages is better than two.

Steve goes about his days, passes his classes, and doesn’t really make any friends. Just didn’t seem easy or important to, really. He had acquaintances and got along just fine, but no invites to sleepovers or parties were sent his way. He misses Bucky like crazy and wonders if he’s making friends. He got along swimmingly with the librarian and art teacher, but those were adults and, well, adults are different. He does help the art teacher after school in exchange for some pointers and little personalized lessons, but that’s still just a student-teacher being pals thing. He gets to dye his hair, so he makes it bright blue and gets a haircut. Shorter on the sides and back so he can just push his bangs to the side and have it look good.

At one point during the school year he gets shoved inside a locker just before lunch and is stuck there until a janitor walks by and Steve calls for help.

He tells him who put him in the locker and the janitor leaves, coming back with an administrator, bolt cutters, and the bully in question. Steve glares through the mesh, cramped in a way he didn’t know was possible, and as soon as the door is opened, Steve squeezes out and before he’s even gotten his feet on the tiled linoleum he manages a tight, aggressive, “Screw you, Gilmore.”

“Now, now-” the admin starts, and Steve already knows this is going to be good. “I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm-”

“Even if he didn’t, by some bullshit change-of-heart miracle, he still _could have_ caused harm,” Steve claims. “What if I had an asthma attack in there? My inhaler is with the nurse, which is stupid anyway. What he did to me was _bullying_ and should not be tolerated. It was irresponsible, cruel, and thoughtless. By writing those traits off as ‘not meaning any harm’ you’re telling him any time he acts in that way that he’s only joking around, that it doesn’t mean anything that he could hurt someone seriously.

“Next time could be a joke too, and everything might be just fine, but when does his luck run out? Pickin’ on kids who are misfits, outcasts, or even just a little shy can seriously impact the mental health of that person. One dumb joke could end in a suicide note,” Steve said. “I saw it happen in seventh grade. Billy Thompson gets locked in the girl's bathroom after months of humiliation and harassment and the next day he’s taken his dad's gun out of it’s safe and shot himself in the head.

“So when I say ‘Screw you Gilmore’ I mean it because shit like this should not be accepted and written off as ‘not meaning any harm!” Steve spat out to an impressed janitor and a shocked administrator.

The janitor gives a slow clap, nodding slowly to show admiration. “Kid, if you ain’t in one of those public speaking classes, you should be,” Stan says.

“Thank you Mr. Lee,” Steve says politely.

The admin looks at Hodge and then Steve and makes a pained face. “I- yes. Unfortunately, you’re right. But- please watch the language?” he says meekly. “Mister Hodge, would you come to the office with me?”

Bucky and he still exchange emails, but Bucky is straight up refusing to give any details, so Steve is stuck with clips of messages like ‘i’m fine. School’s fine. How are you?’

Steve suspects that stuff _isn’t fine_ , but decides not to push, only saying that he was there for Bucky whenever he needed to talk.

The Alexson’s never liked his music, said it was dark and anti-government and didn’t like P!nk and Macklemore or any of that ‘vulgar rock music’ especially, but Erskine doesn’t mind when he plays his iPod loudly in his room, belting out lyrics.

_“OhhHH! All you sinners stand up sing hallelujah! Hallelujah! Show praise with your body, stand up sing hallelujah, hallelujah! And if you can’t stop shaking, lean back let it move right through ya! Hallelujah! Say your prayers, say your prayers, say your prayers! Hallelujah!”_

Erskine sticks his head in, finding Steve in pajamas and his leather jacket, pretending to play the guitar part with his bat, bounding on the bed.

“Vould you like to go out and get lunch?” Erskine asks, unruffled. “A Panera Bread opened up ten or so minutes away.”

Steve pauses. “Uh.” He glanced down at himself. “Let me get dressed.”

* * *

Steve does have nightmares. They’re usually few and far between, or they had been previously, now he’s lucky to pass a week without having two, but when they rattle him awake, fear in his veins and anger bursting in his heart, he can’t get back to sleep. He usually just gets a hold of himself and then does some research or goes to scroll on tumblr until his fear is replaced with injustice or amusement.

When he gasps awake at two AM one night, scrambling back against the headboard and he takes a minute to gather himself, taking a puff from his inhaler, fumbling for his glasses, and gets out of bed. He checks his sock drawer to confirm the presence of four cans of non-perishables, several granola bars, and his can opener before sighing and quietly leaving his room. He rummages around in the kitchen freezer and grabs a tub of chocolate ice cream, walking into the living room with a spoon in hand.

He sits on the couch and turns on the TV, watching some shitty western with subtitles as he quietly spoons melting ice cream into his mouth, stewing in his emotions. His dream was pretty nerve-wracking, he remembers. He was so hungry, in the dream, it was just overwhelming, a clawing in his stomach that felt like actual pain, like something was alive and hungry in his body. It was dark and blurry and the shadows had knives and he knows that he was running, his feet sticking to the floor, or his running slowing rapidly, something after him with deadly calm steps that echoes loud in his ears, but it was the scraping noises that ring in his ears. _Scrape, scrape, cut. Scrape, scrape, cut. The flash of a blade and blood spilling from his mouth as he tries to catch it in his hands, but he can’t stop the flow and its rotten copper between his teeth- fear, fear, he was so scared, he was all alone, something was crawling around in his stomach, alive-_

It was overwhelming and left him feeling shaky. He puts his hand over the scar on his shoulder, willing it to stop hurting.

Erskine walks in, peers at him in his pajamas, and walks away, coming back with a blanket and one of the smaller tubs of sherbet. He places the blanket around Steve's shoulders and takes a chair, watching the crappy movie as well. He doesn’t ask, but his presence is just a wonder to Steve.

Steve watches him instead of the movie, confused and trying to puzzle the man together. Erskine has been nothing but accepting and Steve doesn’t know why. Does he want something from Steve? Steve forged his signature to get piercings. He broke a lamp once (not on accident, but not on purpose, really, he just didn’t stop it from falling when he bumped the table), but Erskine just asked him to get the broom to help clean up.

He never questioned Steve, respected his space, understood the need to keep a supply of accessible food in his room and bag, and never shouted or yelled or made unreasonable rules.

In fact, when Steve was happy, Erskine was happy. He had a nice smile, warm and it brought out laugh lines on his face. He seemed like the type that saw something dark in his past and he didn’t let it make him cold and bitter, like how characters are in movies sometimes.

“Why are you so nice?” Steve finds himself asking, voice wavering but not faltering.

Erskine starts and glances over. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re nice and I don’t know why,” Steve repeats. “I’ve done all sorts of shit you should be mad about. I messed up my face, I faked your signature to do it, I broke things, I steal food, I play music too loud, I drink milk out of the carton, I always try to argue about things, I get into fights and you don't do anything about it. And I _don’t know why_. I don’t even know why you let me live in your house, especially with basically no warning.”

Erskine considers him. “Should I punish you for being yourself?”

“Yes. No.” Steve hesitates. “Maybe.”

“I’m going to have to agree to disagree,” Erskine counters, smiling a bit. “See, I am a bit of a, well, ‘soft soul.’ ” He says it like he’s been called such multiple times. “I don’t believe people should be punished for making mistakes or being who they are. And you, my dear boy, are quite the personality. And I’ll have to admit your standards are not high at all. Your previous foster parents, despicable people, set the bar low, no?”

Steve grumbles and shrugs a bit, eating some ice cream.

“I think you’re fine just the way you are,” Erskine continues. “I will not lie, you are a ‘troublemaker’ but it just makes you more likable. It seems to me that you are pushing boundaries, and I have to say, you are pretty far from pushing mine.

“See, based off your file, I’ve concluded that you don’t know what it’s like to not have to fight against something. Your great-grandmother forced you to fight horrible illnesses, your personality and rather small frame forced you to fight bullies and you’ve picked out fights all your life, your previous foster parent forced you to fight against starvation and now you're here and I have no battles to present.”

Erskine spread his hands as if to show just how few instances of retaliation he’s presented Steve with. “You are, quite simply, a standing army in times of peace.”

Steve wipes his eyes and his shoulders drop a fraction. Erskine isn’t wrong, but having the truth spread out like that just makes him feel stupid. All his life he fought for something and now he just waiting for something that might not even happen.

He’s not sure he knows how to not fight anymore.

“I will admit, I do have rules, but so far you have respected boundaries. Vandalizing my things, ruining my papers or computer, or anything such as that would result in some punishment, but I wouldn't take away any basic necessities like _food_.” Erskine sounds frankly offended to have to say it out loud. “I would, perhaps, ground you, or make you fix your mess.”

That sounds reasonable. That sounds _nice._

Steve, unable to come up with a reply, eats more ice cream. It makes his tongue piercing cold. He wipes tears off his face, sniffing periodically. He wishes Bucky was here. Bucky loves chocolate ice cream.

* * *

Steve carefully sketches his outline and stars in on his details, using his teeth to play with his tongue piercing as he works. Erskine is nearby, working on some project or another. It’s nice, quiet, peaceful.

Steve doesn’t actually work best in peace and quiet, so he decides to do something about it. <What are you doing?>

Erskine looks up, a little surprised and delighted. <I am working on an experiment at my lab, a ------- that would bring the human body to peak performance.>

Steve squints and starts scribbling in hair on his model. “Spritze?” he repeats the word he didn't know.

“Like, an injection. A serum of sorts,” Erskine explains. <I study biochemistry and biology. We have a grant from the military to develop this injection to make soldiers stronger, faster, more durable…> Erskine trails off, tapping his chin with a pen. <It is proving complicated.>

<Sounds like> Steve agreed.

<Yes. And there are concerns of it being stolen so security is tighter than ever and the guards are quite bothersome.>

“Huh, that’s <Weird.>”

Erskine laughs. “And what is this combining languages? Germinglish?”

Steve grumbles and traces glasses on the figure. He’s getting close to done, but he needs to shade some and do some more details. <I bet your English wasn’t perfect when you just started speaking it.>

<Ha! Very true,> Erskine acknowledged. <I came to America to attend a university, actually. Yale. Many of my classmates teased me over my accent, mixing up words, forgetting words in English but not German and having to try to remember what it is, or vice versa… You know, anything that they could reasonably make fun of.>

“That’s not fair,” Steve grumbled. “Should have told them to learn another language and see how they like it.”

Erskine laughs. <And you? What are you working on?>

“‘M almost done,” Steve replied, flipping his tongue ring out again and sticking it between his lips as he drew a few more line. “There.” He brought it up and showed Erskine the picture, a picture of Erskine himself. “Think I got your likeness, yeah?”

Erskine looked surprised and delighted. “Wunderbar!”

* * *

Winter break was coming up and Steve didn’t realize it until he came home one day to find a menorah on the kitchen table.

“I didn’t know you were Jewish!” Steve exclaims, throwing his hands up and looking in exasperation to Erskine.

Erskine, in the middle of gathering his papers, gasps and his eyes widen dramatically. His hands fly to the sides of his head, looking alarmed and dismayed. _“I forgot that you are Catholic!”_

The absurdity of the situation becomes too much and Steve starts cackling so hard he can’t breathe. Erskine quickly joins in, laughter being the most infections element in the room. It takes a while to calm down after that, inhaler use included, especially when Steve manages “I woulda gotten you a gift!”

Erskine replies with. “I should have gotten a tree! I don’t know how that works, but I would have gotten a tree!”

And thus laughter is renewed.

That being said, they go out shopping. They get a tiny tree, one made for decoration, really, like one you might put in an office, and a handful of ornaments with a stand of cheap Christmas lights. It goes next to the menorah. Next, Steve goes into Target alone and gets eight cheap but thoughtful presents. He doesn’t let Erskine see what he got.

Erskine showed him how to make latkes and all in all, it’s a wonderful holiday.

Steve distributes his presents daily, but all in all Erskine receives a nice new notebook, a pack of nice fancy pens, a patch that reads “Screw Lab Safety, I Want Superpowers!” for his lab coat, a pocket dictionary of sign language, a pack of fun socks, a dice shaped fidget toy, a silly beanie that looked like a cat, and a little model of the Millenium Falcon, as Erskine was a big Star Wars fan. He loved his gifts.

For Christmas, Steve gets eight presents, as Erskine forgot that he wasn't Jewish, he was going to distribute them to him as such. Steve receives several books, The Anarchist’s Cookbook, to which Erskine painfully reminds him that mixing drugs was bad and to mostly ignore that part, and all three books in the March series, which is a graphic novel series about the fight for civil rights in the 60’s. Both are fascinating reads. He also gets a new shirt, a beat-up looking American flag tank top, leather fingerless motorcycle gloves, a gift card to Barnes and Noble, a new black backpack with silver stars on part of it, a Rubix Cube, a handful of new rings for his piercings, and a cute little string doll. It’s white with a purple mohawk and beady black eyes, holding a tiny pipe and wearing black pants. Steve loved it.

* * *

A few weeks later, around Valentine's day, Erskine comes home early. Clearly, Steve had gone to school that day, and generally, Erskine gets home an hour after he does, but when Steve goes to unlock the door, he finds it already open. Surprised, Steve pushes inside and ditches his bag. He checks the living room and then heads to the kitchen. Erskine is sitting at the kitchen table in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and is drinking a bottle of something, looking miserable.

“Doc?” Steve asks. “Why’re you home so early?”

Erskine looks up at him and grimaces. He puts the bottle down and sighs, crossing his arms and rubbing his face. “Hello, Steven. There was… an incident at work. A break in, really. I have had- day was elongated.”

“You had a long day,” Steve corrects mildly, sitting at the table too. “You okay?”

“Ja. The men, they had guns, a few security officers are in critical condition, many are dead, but the other scientists were just injured. I was- grazed, here,” He touches his side. “They took our research. Everything.”

“Shit,” Steve said meaningfully.

“Ja. They escaped before the police arrived, it will take ages to replace what we have lost and I can only be thankful that we were nowhere near testing phases, so what those men stole will only harm them.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s good, but shit. Doc, you could’ve _died_. Why didn’t you call the school to get me?”

Erskine made a little gesture. “It happened early, by the time everyone was taken to the hospital and seen to… what is…? <I was tired and wanted to go home. No need to bother you when you would be home in half an hour anyway.>”

“You could have died!” Steve repeats.

<Yes! You think I am drinking my peach schnapps for no reason? Bah! I want to finish this bottle and go to bed,> Erskine said tiredly.

“Y’should eat something too,” Steve adds. “Here, I’ll make some grilled cheese or something. Y’got any meds you need to take?”

<No. Well, none that go well with alcohol.>

“Then maybe you should stop drinking. The alcohol,” Steve said lightly and pulled it from Erskine’s fingers. Erskine sighs and relents. Steve caps the bottle and puts it back in the fridge. He rummages around for bread and cheese and puts it on the counter, making them both an extremely early dinner. He finds a carton of tomato soup and puts that on too.

After they eat, Steve puts on a movie, _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_ , and they sit in relative silence.

“We had developed another injection,” Erskine mentions as the characters jump from an airplane. “It was experimental, a medical solution that speeds up healing in a subject. It was almost complete, actually. It had worked in our lab rats, after all, but we weren’t yet sure of its effects on humans. I almost wonder what those men will do with it, if it does work.”

Steve hums. “S weird. Y’think you can make it again?”

“Perhaps. I developed it once, I don’t see why we can’t again. I am uncertain of the super soldier project, after that break in it might be deemed too risky.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Steve mentioned. “Can you imagine how crazy it'd be to have two super soldiers fightin’ each other? Probably be like watching two tanks go at it.”

Erskine huffs a laugh. “Perhaps.”

* * *

Summer came and Steve found trouble only a week into vacation because he’s one dumb ass shit who can’t stand bullies. Specifically, Nazis. Or neo-Nazis. The only difference being the Nazis are shouting their bullshit in a time where their bullshit is something nobody wants to hear.

So Steve’s dumb ass was walking along in the park and saw this guy with a specific set of number on his neck (88, otherwise known as _Heil Hitler_ , and 14, the Fourteen Words, referencing white supremacist bullshit), loudly arguing nonsense about white supremacy, demanding the purity of its line, the presence of white genocide, and some pretty anti-semitic bullshit about how Jews control the world and banks and have horns, and how the Final Solution was the correct solution and to a few white people who looked interested though they tried to hide their faces to a degree and Steve _stares_ , dumbfounded, but only for a second.

He got mad faster than a bull with a red cape billow in front of him because how dare that Nazi fuck say that about people, about Steve’s friend and his foster parent? He said that people like Bucky and Erskine belong in a fucking oven!

So, disregarding the police officer only a dozen feet away and seeing red, Steve runs up and, without pause, shouts, “Hey, you Nazi fucker!” and when the guy turns to look, Steve socks him right in the face. His form was perfect and he felt the man’s nose crack under his fist. Steve punches the guy again and the hesitant group of racists disperses quickly. That’s how Steve finds himself arrested, facing assault charges, and in juvenile court in an unicolored jumpsuit.

They took his piercings at the precinct with his stuff and he’s just glad that he’s just about at that time frame that’ll keep the holes from closing up when he’s in. It was pretty fucking stupid, but definitely worth it. The video evidence is proof enough of his guilt, though he ain’t feeling particularly guilty about it, and he clears his throat when he’s allowed to talk to the judge during the end of the trial.

“Uh, your Honor, I think consideration about why I did it has to be put in there too,” he starts. “That-“ Steve tries to find a polite word. “Human being,” he says delicately. “Was preaching Nazi propaganda, claiming Hitler was right about everything. Yeah, free speech is great and all, but what Nazis support is genocide, fascism, and the end of free speech. They want to silence the people they hate and get enough support to get a platform to speak on, to get other people to support them too. Before you know it we’d have a World War Three dedicated to fighting the same war we did in World War Two. ‘Sides that, free speech only really means the government can’t stop you from saying something or punish you for it. Doesn’t mean an idiot like me will let him get away with saying he believed Jewish people should die with no repercussions.

“So yeah, I punched the guy in the face, but I didn’t punch him for the hell of it. I was thinking about my best friend and my foster parent, both of who’re Jewish. So, hearing this guy spout bullshit about Jews, including my best friend, belonging in an oven and deserving to die for no damn reason other than being Jewish, I lost my temper. I can’t say I regret it, because I think it taught the guy a lesson; that hate speech has consequences when it’s turned against people who believe in the ideals this country is built on; truth, justice, and equality.

“By condemning equality, he condemns this country and forfeits his right to it. In my eyes, that man ain’t even American. I know I acted rashly, did something I probably shouldn’t have done, but was it really the wrong thing to do?”

The judge looked impressed, faintly amused, and considering. “How many times did you run that over in your head before this?”

“It was just off the top of my head ma’am,” Steve replied honestly.

She eyed the Nazi and then Steve, making her decision.

“In light of your reasons behind this with its truth, and the proof of the assault of this man, my verdict is just eight weeks in a juvenile correction center.” She gave him a small smile. “You’ll be out before you know it.”

That was a lot better than the options he had before and he nodded. Then he realized that he probably got off easier because he was white, and was a little mad, but he really didn’t want to be in for any longer, so.

Erskine got to meet him before they took him off, in the front of the building. He didn’t seem upset, just the opposite.

“You’re not mad?” Steve asked meekly.

Erskine laughed a bit. <Are you joking? I couldn’t be prouder! I know I haven’t spoken about my family very much, but as a Jew during the Second World War, my mother was in a concentration camp as a child. Many of my family, uncles and aunts and grandparents and such, died in those camps. My mother managed to survive until the end and was released with the rest of the people in her camp. What you did is you helped defend the legacy of the people who lived and died in those camps. You’re a good boy, Steven and I couldn’t possibly be mad at you for doing what you did.> I’ll be sure to visit, ja?”

Steve grinned. “Thanks, Dr. Erskine.”

“None of that, Steven, call me Abraham at the very least.” Erskine muttered something in German and patted his pockets, eventually revealing a patch reading _“I don’t have a short temper. I just have a quick reaction to BULLSHIT.”_

“Do you like it?” Erskine said mischievously and Steve laughed.

Erskine gave him a hug and wished him luck as he boarded the armored transport van and waved him goodbye. They picked up three other kids, two of them covered in tats and one of them shaking slightly, tapping and picking at his skin. Steve pulled his knees up to his chest and looked at the cop that was keeping an eye on them.

The building was called Azzano Juvenile Detention Center, and looked large and imposing, surrounded by dense forests, but set in the middle of a completely barren circle of browning grass and dust. It was like a dead spot in a forest, or a faery ring, like he shouldn't go in, if he doesn’t have to. But he has to.

In-take was fine but uncomfortable and embarrassing because they checked them over for, well, everything everywhere. They didn’t want contraband getting in the building, of course. His meds were taken to the nurse's office where he’d go to get his dosage each day after dinner.

Soon enough he was walked into the area with everyone else. There were two levels and a wide space in the center with tables full of boys hanging around. Yellow railings and markings and it was brightly lit. The other boys hooted and hollered saying stuff like ‘fresh meat’ and other nonsense. They were then shown their rooms. Steve had one by the stairs on the second level. Thin beds bolted to the wall, bunks. A shelf, also bolted to the wall, and a toilet. The guy on the top bunk gave him a look and continued reading his book. Asian, on the shorter side, with sharp eyes. He had a tattoo or two on his upper arms.

“Hey. I’m, uh, Steve,” he offered.

“Jim Morita,” he replied. “Now shut up, I’m reading.”

Steve took that as it was and let him be.

Later, in the mess hall, he found that dinner was… really gross, worse than school food even. He was about to hunker down to eat anyway when a small group of five fellas, including Jim, came to sit by him. Steve half wondered if he was about to be threatened.

“Name’s Dum Dum. What are you in for?” the first guy said. He had a wider face, red undertone, the beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip, and a hat, prison hat that is.

“Assault,” Steve responded neutrally. “Punched a neo-Nazi in front of a cop. Broke his nose.”

“Dum Dum, this twig won’t last a week,” the boy to his left said. He was white, had a bit of a mustache growing over his lip. The mustache looked kind of terrible, but at that age what can you do? They all look like rat mustaches.

“This twig will knock your teeth out,” Steve growled.

“He’s got spirit. He might make it,” Dum Dum protested in Steve’s defense. “Listen, we’re the Howling Commandos, one of a couple of gangs locked up here. You join up, we’ve got your back, no strings attached.”

“I’m not interested,” Steve said narrowly.

“I won’t force you, just wanted to offer before anybody else did. C’mon, would introductions help?”

“Not likely,” Steve replied.

Dum Dum started pointing. “Gabe, Monty, Jim, Frenchie. We’re in for stuff like grand theft auto, stealing, assault, or damage to property, though Gabe-”

“Was just black and accused of stealing,” Gabe insists. “ _Which I didn’t_. I was on the straight and narrow, man. I didn’t do nothing to nobody. It’s bullshit.”

“And Frenchie blew up a truck.”

Steve blinked a few times, bewildered and unsure if he heard right. “He what?”

The teen started exclamation in angry French, and Gabe said, “I can’t say that! He- uh, he said that the guy was running over neighborhood pets and he had to- can’t say that either, c’mon, man!” Gabe replies in a flash of spanish French and Frenchie threw his beret onto the table and pointed.

Steve snorts a bit in amusement and goes back to the nurses when dinner time is over. He pops his pills under supervision and goes back to his cell, lying on the cot and dozing to pass time. Lights out happens before he knows it and he goes to sleep for real.

* * *

Next morning, after lunch, he gets a visitor. It was Erskine, of course, and he’s got Steve’s sketchbook and a few charcoal and graphite sticks. “I wanted to bring some of your nice pencils, but they don’t want anything sharp in the facility,” he said apologetically.

“Hey, thanks,” Steve said honestly, smiling. “Really. This is great.”

Erskine gives a smile. “So, you have been settling in, ja?”

“Yeah. It’s not too bad,” Steve said honestly. “Somebody tried to get me to join a gang, which was interesting.”

“Ja, I imagine so,” Erskine agreed. “I emailed your friend. James? Bucky? I told him what you did and that you wouldn't be able to reply to him for a while. He told me to tell you that you are a quote, ‘dumbass,’ and that he wants to talk to you about something when you get out.”

“Thanks,” Steve said honestly. “Hey, I’m, ah, sorry. About everything.”

“Whatever for? Steven, you are a brave and level-headed young boy. You’re aware of the value of strength and compassion. You may have punched a man, which is technically speaking illegal, but you did it defending the people he sees as lesser. Your moral compass is a strong one and you’ll grow up to be a good man one day.”

Steve smiled, grateful for the words Erskine has given him.

Erskine then sighed and rubbed his face. “I have been informed that you won’t be my foster son follow your release. CPS feels that you may be better suited somewhere else. I’m told that you’ll be put somewhere else and I’m simply keeping your stuff safe for you.”

“Thanks for the honesty,” Steve sighed. “That’s a bummer, but I guess it’s whatever.”

“I’ll keep visiting,” Erskine added. “I couldn’t deny you that.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Soon this visit was over and Steve went back to his cell to sketch. Thirty minutes into a shark swimming in dark waters, he heard Jim shift and looked up to see the boy in question peering at his sketch thoughtfully. “You can draw? That’s pretty damn good, ace.”

“Thanks,” Steve offered hesitantly.

Jim considered him. “How well can you do a tattoo?”

He went from art to tattoos quicker than Steve liked and he blinked, dumbfounded. “What?”

“Our local tattoo artist is getting released in two days. If you can give a good tattoo, you might get some respect. Become, uh, you know, liked, around here.” Jim tried to explain. “If you’re good. Let me get Jet in here.”

Jim hopped off his bunk and stepped outside, whistling sharply and gesturing for someone to come up. Suddenly there's a guy covered in tats in his cell. His arms are swarmed in fresh and faded ink and his hands are dark with designs as well. It looks really jarring considering his pasty and unblemished skin from his collar up.

“What, so the kid is artsy?” Jet asks.

“He’s pretty good,” Jim offers, shrugging.

Jet snatches the sketchbook right out of Steve’s hands and starts flipping through it. Steve stands up, shouting “Hey!”

Jet hums, impressed. “The twig’s got talent. Yeah, I bet he’ll get it quick. Twig, what’s your name?”

“Steve,” he ground out. “Now give me my sketchbook back.”

Jet throws it on the bed and looks at Jim. “You for real about this guy? Seems like an asshole.”

“Oh, I’m the asshole?” Steve snaps.

“Well, he has spirit, at least,” Jet remarks and snatches Steve’s arm, pulling him up and through the door. He drags Steve down the walkway and pulls him, Frenchie following after, into another cell. Steve rips his arm out of Jet’s hold and brings up his fist.

“Calm down, short stack,” Jet sneers. “And sit your ass down.” Steve doesn’t, but he watches as Jet climbs up on the top bunk and pushes the light fixture up and away. He roots around in the darkness and drops a metal container onto the bed before replacing the light and jumping down.

“Sit down.” He pushes Steve back and he goes ‘oof.’ Jet plops himself next to Steve and opens the box. He pulls out two tattoos guns, a bottle of black ink, and a packet of gloves. “I’ll give a little demonstration. What’ll it be, kid?” he says as he pulls the new gloves on.

“What? No! I don’t want a tattoo!”

“Listen, kid, I’m not asking you to design a whole fucking pin-up girl, just something simple. Small.” Jet passes him a pen. “Doodle it, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“I don’t need one,” Steve growled. “Fuck off!”

“Listen beanpole, word gets around and you ain’t ridin’ with anybody. You do that, you’re open season to whatever fucked up aggression that boils over in this piss hole. Ain’t nobody gonna come and help ya. They might even join in. You be the next tattoo guy, you’ll get respect, people might even like you so if any shit stain in this dump tries shit with you, you got a little armada at your back, got me?”

Steve glared, mulling Jet’s words over. He takes the pen and on the side of his left wrist sketches a little five point star. Barely taking up a square centimeter.

“Lovely doin’ business,” Jet grins and he shows Steve how to put ink into it before plugging it into the socket in the wall.

“Is that thing sterile?” Steve asked nervously.

“Yeah, I replace the needles after each time. Frenchie, you know the French guy? He has this guy who buys ‘em outside and brings ‘em in. They’re good. Gloves and all too. He’s solid. Commandos are a tight crew.”

Jet puts his fist out and Jim respectfully bumps it. Jet turns to Steve again. “Okay. Pretty simple. Draw the outline in pen that washes off. You know how concept art works, it’ll give you an idea of where to follow. Okay, so this tattoo gun is the one you want to use for outlines and this one for shading. I’ll shade the middle of your star after the outline. Just watch me.”

Then he proceeded to grab Steve’s arm to hold him steady and start the outline at the tip of the star. Steve’s eye twitched at the pain, but he’s been stuck with enough needles to be used to the sensation and pain. Jet kept working over it with laser focus.

“Go at a little bit of an angle and be sure to wipe it excess ink with some paper towels and water, because they’re pretty sterile and the ink bleeds out a bit.”

Jet finishes his first round and did as he explained. As he worked, he told Steve how everything worked, how to keep his stuff clean, how to shade in and ink everything. He said a good understanding of how light works was important, but since Steve was a good artist, he should understand the basics of how the artistic aspect worked. It’s just the technical stuff he needs to practice.

At last, he finished. A neat, tidy, five point star with a shaded grey center was now present on Steve’s wrist.

“Keep it clean. Here’s some ointment.”

Jet put a dab of stuff on it and Steve smeared it in.

“Now, you do me.” Jet yanked off his shoe and sketched a little minimalist rocketship, the one with one circular window and those spiky things around the rocket engine used in most stickers.

He passes Steve a new pair of gloves, let Steve put in a new needle, gestured, then crossed his arms.

Steve went to work. When he finished, dabbing the antibacterial ointment on, Jet hummed, impressed. “Good job. Looks like you’re in business. Jim’ll tell you how to hide everything and get you your supplies. People will pay you. Frenchie will _not_ pay you and gets full rights to tattoos, in fact, you might pay him for supplies. Do a good job, you’ve got yourself some respect and protection.”

On Steve’s way out he swats Steve over the head.

The next day, Jet drops off a whole bunch of shit he stored in his room. The whole metal box holds a box of unused needles, two bottles of tattoo ink, a tube of anti-bacterial cream, a couple of pens, some antibacterial wipes, and both tattoo guns. The light fixture is the one spot the cops never look at when searching the rooms because they’re considered secure, so Steve stashes the stuff up there.

Jet gives Steve a salute, bumps fists with Jim, and goes back to his room. Next morning, Jet is released and Steve starts getting customers. After a few hours of tattooing meaningless words that he assumes are gang affiliations and taking petty cash, Steve starts coming up with some boundaries. A list of rules, as it were. He tells everyone this list before they request something and he draws the design for evaluation and marking it on their skin in pen and then ink.

No large face tattoos. Nothing that he knows they will regret, but discussions can be made. No dick tattoos. Tattoos of dicks and tattoos on dicks. Both had been requested. This also includes vaginas. No vagina tattoos. No Nazi propaganda. No Nazi anything. If requested, you may be stabbed with a needle. White supremacist stuff too. Racist stuff too. All of the things that are bad are lumped together. With that out of the way, he was free to do as he pleased and was requested to do.

During lunch, he sat with the Commandos, watching the other teens around him carefully. “Hey, where’s the kid who sits over there?” he asks, pointing at an empty seet. There seemed to be something of a self-chosen seating chart in the area. Occasionally kids fought over ‘their’ seat. It was alarming, but also interesting to watch.

Gabe sniffed, and wiped his lips. “We- we think he got sent to _solitary_.”

“Why do you say it like that?” Steve asked.

Monty shook his head. “We- sometimes… people go to ‘solitary’ even when they haven’t done anything. They come out… mad, sick, sometimes. But they always have something new to trade or pass around. Drugs, cash, contraband. Sometimes people just don’t come back. They say they get sent to a different holding area, but we don’t always know if that’s it. Sounds like it could be true, but… nobody really knows.”

Steve paused.

“There’s this gang, the Skulls. They don’t like us, they keep to their own, cause some trouble, get people sent to solitary. We think they know something we don’t,” Dum Dum says.

“Weird,” Steve muses.

With all the orders he started giving while he was working on inking somebody up, he got the nickname ‘Captain.’ He liked it. Better than twig, stick, beanpole, or whatever they could come up with.

Having to produce quality work, Steve started working on himself. He put _Captain_ on his right shoulder in nice formal script and a couple more stars on his left arm. A few little ones around his wrist and as they go up they gradually get bigger. At his elbow he starts excluding spare on the inside of the star, leaving a nice thick outline without filling it completely in.

He debates with himself for a while before putting a neat anchor on his right calf, near his ankle. Attached to the top is a little Star of David the initials JBB on it. Of course, Bucky is more than his religion, he isn’t _Bucky the Jew_ , but it’s a small and simple reminder. Bucky had never really been one for symbols, after all.

He hangs out with the Commandos, because they seem safe. He talks with Gabe about learning French, and they start working on that when they see each other. Sometimes Gabe and Frenchie will come in to sit and talk as he works on tattoos. They do it at meal times too, and talk about all sorts of things.

During this, Steve starts noticing everything the Comandos pointed out. Track marks on the kids who went to ‘solitary.’ The kids who vanish during the day looking exhausted, but counting meager bucks to bring to Steve or other contraband salesman. Something was definitely up, but in the just under two weeks he’d been there, he hadn’t gotten closer to figuring out what. Sure, he asked some kids as he put ink on skin, and occasionally he tailed them to a security door, where they were cleared by a security guard, but that told him squat diddly.

Erskine visits again, raising an eyebrow at the marks on Steve’s skin. “Settling in well, I see.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “The decision came down to be the resident tattoo artist or get the hell beat outta me, so I chose the former. I’m kinda my own practice sheet.”

Erskine nodded in understanding and looked closely at his arm. “You did this all yourself?”

“Yep.”

“Very nice quality. I could almost guess it as professionally done. Remarkable work.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you considered doing tattoos professionally?”

“A bit, but I’m an artist. I consider everything that’d let me do art. Ideally, I’m a starving artist type with enough money to, well, not starve.”

“Ah,” Erskine said in understanding, leaning back in his chair and scratching his beard. “Have you made any friends?”

“I dunno,” Steve said honestly. “Think so. Some of the boys don’t like me much, I’ve got... people I guess.”

He’s pretty busy, what with the influx of income and poking tiny holes in people and himself, and his investigation hitting dead ends, but he does manage to notice attention he shouldn’t be getting from the Skull gang the Commandos told stories of at lunch.

Two weeks in, he was minding his own business while getting served glops of something that looks straight nasty in the mess hall when he feels something sharp jab into his lower back and _keep going_ , pain flashing through him as he twists and brings up his tray, smashing it into his assailant's face, as he comes back around, as he had twisted in the first place, he does it again.

That’s pure Miss Carter, right there. Use what you have available and use it viciously.

Once he’s facing forward, he lashes out with his foot, catching the boy in his stomach. Steve whirls to get into a better fighting position and watches his attacker in his defensive stance. Shitty baked beans and blood run down the boy's face from the shattered ends of the plastic and the boy charged into Steve, knocking them both to the floor.

With hands on his neck, and unable to breathe, Steve bares his teeth and slams his fists into the boy's face again and again. No use trying to break the hold, not with 160 pounds of teen on him. When the dude fell back, wiping at his eyes and getting to his feet, Steve stands and pulls the shank out of his back, brandishing it and growling. It’s mostly blade with a small grip, barely an inch and a half of cloth for a handle, and a majority of the blade was already in Steve’s back so pulling it out hurt like a bitch and blood dripped off of it.

Gabe comes up out of nowhere and punches the guy across the face, and Dum Dum and Monty push Steve back through the crowd, right out the door before the cops can disperse the crowd and put them in cuffs to lead them to ‘solitary.’

He’s treated quickly enough, a nice stab wound, but it didn’t hit anything vital and didn’t get any more than an inch in. They keep an eye out for infection, but in the end, it heals okay. Guards came and asked some questions, but in the end, there was footage of an unprovoked attack and Steve had a ring of bruises around his neck to prove it.

But the attack made Steve suspicious. The guy was a Skull, and he didn’t even say anything. He just went in for the attack. The initial bit wasn’t deadly, it wasn’t aiming for his throat or spine, but the hands around his neck was definitely something that felt targeting, silencing. But why hadn’t he been sent to solitary? I mean, if the Skulls seem to have such a preference by the guards?

Steve continues marking others and himself up in ink. And he keeps looking into this strange business. He notices the guards have a… system, they have communication, and they associate like they’re more then just work associates, and something more serious than friends. They definitely know where the working kids go and what happens in solitary. Which means that Steve is surrounded by the enemy and that is not good.

They’re allowed some computer time, usually about thirty minutes each week but no communication allowed, so Steve looks up tattoo designs and sketches them swiftly when his turn comes around. Having a few ideas, and finding a few neat but small tattoos, he marks two symbols next to his right eye, near his temple.

One is basically two X’s stacked on each other, the greek symbol of Inguz, meaning ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ The other is two upside down V’s, one over the other, a Viking symbol meaning ‘create your own reality.’

He starts a more complex piece on the right side of his neck, a big bear paw print with long nails and twisting Celtic knots in the toes and the pad. It’s pretty big, but with the help of a mirror, he manages to complete it and have a beautiful finished product after several sessions.

Additionally, on his chest he inks a large yet minimalist eagle, wings spread and made of thick black lines. It’s tricky, it’s big, hurts a bit, it takes many sessions, but it looks nice in the end. As the eagle is made out of shapes rather than details, it’s breast is symbolized by an upside down, and slightly curved, triangle right over Steve’s heart.

He also looks up jails and juvies that made people work, and secret societies in institutions like this, but gets nowhere. He looks up inmate experimentation, but nothing recent comes up, nothing relevant.

Frustrated, Steve turns to the Commandos again.

“Something is wrong,” he says. “Something is seriously wrong here. The solitary kids. It’s the same twenty people, in and out. Or it was twenty, when I came. Now we’re at sixteen. The Skulls never go to solitary, or never long, and they never come out like that.”

Steve motions to the boy by the wall, looking pale and shaking. He flips through his wad of cash and Steve spots him slip a little bag of powder into his pants. “It’s always the junkies. It’s always kids who would do pretty much anything for cash. It’s targeting people. And the guards, they’re in on it. They let the working kids go places we can’t. And that attack. The one on me. That was when I was getting close to the door, and asking questions.”

The Commandos look at him. “Is this some conspiracy theory?” Jim asks.

“It’s not a conspiracy when we can see all this evidence,” Steve replies. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

Frenchie speaks up after Gabe quietly translates. (I want to help. I’m concerned about this as well.)

Gabe translates and adds, “Me too. This shit’s getting crazy. It needs solving, one way or another.”

Steve cracked his knuckles. “Okay. Frenchie, use your contact, ask him about the other guards, see if he knows anything, or if he’s covering for them too. If you can find out what’s making them keep this hush-hush, that’s one step closer. Dum-Dum, can you rough up a worker or solitary kid and get them to spill? Don’t hurt ‘em, but we gotta see how deep this loyalty lies. Monty, think you can do a little splying, a little listening in with the Skulls?”

“You got it, Captain.”

“Gabe, you help the staff sometimes, in the nurse's office, a place can’t go. Look around and see if you can find me an access point anywhere. And Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to try to join the Skulls. Pretend we fucked with you, did something you hate. Can you do that?”

“I’ll give it a try,” Jim agrees. “Might have to punch you in the face, though.”

He can’t always work on tattooing others, because he gets sick every other week, but so some he marks knives crossing and guns and more gang signs, numbers, letters, logos and random numbers that Steve would rather not know the definition of. But, on the softer sort, he tattoos minimalist flowers, and moons and stars. He painstakingly copies a negative version of the milky way on the back of someone's neck at some point, each prick representing a star. He marks lyrics and quotes and names of loved ones lost.

Steve doesn’t remember much of his mother, despite his near photographic memory. He lost her when he was very little, but he had videos she took of her and him, obvious signs of her love for him, her affectionate smiles, her delighted laughter as he wiggled as a baby and looked around with wide eyes. He misses her more than anything. Against his hairline on the left side, from his temple to a bit above his eyebrow, he marks the name _Sarah_ , a small bit of text twisted among dark roses so that the name and the brambles intermixed. It wasn’t a big tattoo, but it stood out a bit, the black ink on his white skin.

Erskine visits again, looking at him in interests. “You have been even more productive, I see.”

“Yeah. I was good at the beginning, but I think I’m getting better.”

“I see that. The quality has increased. Your lines are less…” Erskine made a motion. “Blurry? That isn’t quite the word. They are more bold or they are more neat, and there is less evidence of it being unprofessionally done.”

“Yeah, I understand what you mean,” Steve agrees. “Hey, uh, did they tell you about the attack?”

“What?”

“Yeah, a guy tried to stab me so I smashed my lunch tray into his face and he tried to choke me out. Punched him in the face ‘til he let me go.”

Erskine blinked. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I got a good scar on my back, but I’m fine.”

Four weeks in he gets attacked again. Steve is hanging out by the fence during their outdoors time, he was feeling a bit off, maybe getting sick again, and eyeing his prison number with an idea in his head when someone comes up beside him and Steve looks over. It’s someone Steve doesn’t recognize. Maybe from another cell block.

“You’re the tattoo guy?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies suspiciously. “What’s it to ya?”

The boy, a white older boy with a few old tattoos on his neck, one of which was a skull dripping blood, looks over to the Commandos, who notice him and shift, and then he slashes something across Steve’s face, knocking his glasses clean off, and shoved him to the ground, driving the wind out of Steve’s lungs. He then proceeded to kick dust in Steve’s face before stomping on his chest. He didn’t even give Steve a chance to fight back.

Those three things proved to be a bad mixture because Steve started having an asthma attack in the middle of the yard. His lungs tightened, he felt dizzy and he gasped for breath as chaos sprung up around him. He heard guards shouting, boys shouting, fighting and ‘ _The kid’s got asthma, get him to the nurses!’_

Someone hefted him off the ground and books it as Steve gasped and choked, drowning for the need of air as the blood on his eye half-blinded him. His vision was darkening, and soon he was inside and unable to work his legs as he was put on a table and the nurses started trying to get him to use his emergency inhaler.

Dizzy, he managed a pathetic puff, not really able to hold it in, but after a few more tries, breathing started to feel easier and he wasn’t dying. He felt weak and dizzy still as the nurses checked him over and saw to the bruise on his chest and cut on his face. It started next to his eye socket and went up through his eyebrow, stopping an inch before his hairline. They taped the shallow cut on the top and bottom of it and stitched the deepest part in the middle.

“Take a rest, kid,” he heard, and Steve followed that advice easily.

* * *

When he woke up and was cleared, still without his glasses and missing his hearing aid, he’s not sure when he lost that, he went to his cell block and saw exactly what happened with blurry vision and only one working ear. The Commandos were missing. The Skulls had each and every single one of their members, scattered about and patched up.

Steve snags the first unaffiliated kid and pulls them over. “Where are the Commandos?”

“Solitary,” the boy replies gruffly. “Now shove off, faggot.”

Steve let him go. “Watch your fucking mouth,” he snapped back and went up to his room.

Okay. So, the Commandos were in solitary, because a Skull started a riot, got them sent down. Jim had not been making a lot of way with his infultation, Dum-Dum found the solitary kids and workers just as tight lipped as Steve expected, Monty’s spying got him some tidbits, how they were targeting the solitary kids because of their past, how they were getting paid in money and protection. By who they didn’t know yet. But this went beyond a gang. This was a group of hired thugs. They were also talking about Erskine. They were talking about a project, a _serum_ , that the boss wanted. Frenchie found that his supplier was in on the thing, and when asked questions, said nothing, but threatened to break off their arrangement if he kept asking.

Gabe found Steve an access point.

Steve let out a breath. He had an access point.

A knock came from his door and Steve warily watched as a guard opened it. “You have a visitor.”

* * *

Erskine notices the fresh cut on his forehead and over his eyebrow. He points it out. “What is this?”

“I got attacked again,” Steve said quietly, he frowns at the table, lacing his fingers together over his mouth, thinking. “Something is wrong.”

“Steven?”

“Doc. Listen.” Steve glanced around, spotting a Skull talking to a gruff looking man a bit away and eyeing them. Steve lowered his voice. “Did you keep working on that serum you told me about?”

Erskine pales slightly, looking alarmed. “Steven, what brings this up?” he asked calmly.

“There’s talk goin’ around. There’s some sort of… thing happening here. All I know is that some people are talking about you, and talking about a serum that somebody wants really badly. I’m thinkin’ maybe just as bad as they wanted it last time.” Steve says calmly, lowly. “Doc, I was looking into something here, with the Commandos, and now they’re all in solitary, they might not be here anymore. I need you to know that if you successfully made that serum, you better get it far away from you as you can.”

Erskine stares at him and swallows hard. “I- I will consider this. Thank you for telling me.”

On his way back to his cell, one of the solitary pulls him aside with a weak arm, palming something into his hand and walking away. Steve looks down to find his glasses and a broken hearing aid and watches the kid turn a corner.

Stressed as he waits for news on his gang, he tattoos his knuckles with miscellaneous types of stars. He puts a compass, a realistic pocket compass, on the back of his right hand. He also marks the line-up of planets on the side of his left foot. On his right, he adds the phases of the moon. He doesn’t even tattoo anyone else, just himself. Staying in his little cell as the Skulls prowl about outside, preying on the weak.

Three days later, when the Commandos still aren’t back and the working kids aren't saying jack, Steve stuffed Jim's pillow under his covers, climbs up on the second bed, and squeezes inside the ceiling through the light fixture. He has to be very careful, because the ceiling is fragile, but he’s light and if he hangs onto the beams above, he can just shuffle across the cross sections.

He manages to find stronger areas and slips through the long dark strips, and he makes his way to the nurses office, careful as can be. He gets there ten minutes later and carefully shifts one ceiling tile to peer down into the area. There’s nobody in sight. He puts his good ear o the opening and closes his eyes, waiting for any sign of noise. Nothing.

There are no cameras where he needs to be, and Gabe left a screwdriver just under the cart nearest the vent cover, so Steve drops down, which hurts his feet, but he manages to do it quietly in just his socks. He grabs the screwdriver and gets to work, taking off the cover and slipping inside. He turns a bit and puts it back in place. Steve lets out a breath with that all concealed and continues forward. He doesn’t have a lot of idea where he’s going, but if he heads toward the door that gets him to where the working kids go, that’s a step in the right direction.

It takes him like, thirty minutes, but he thinks he’s in the right place when he finds the next vent cover. He’s not in a good place to unscrew the vent, but if he jams the screwdriver against the screw, he can wiggle it out of place and then push to rip it out of the metal vent plating. He peers out and finds himself exactly on the other side of the door. Not believing his luck, he climbs out, puts the cover back, and starts down the hall, looking about.

There’s… nothing. It’s just so empty. He fiddles with the screwdriver in his hand and keeps looking around.

He comes to a door at the end of the hall and opens it up, staring down at least three flights of stairs. There are sounds now, the sounds of engines and machinery. Slipping down that and going straight on, he finds himself on a catwalk above what can only be described as a factory. Kids from all seven sectors have to be working there, from the size it is. The thirty from his section couldn’t fill all those seats, assembling what has to be weapons, based on the parts he sees. The weapons, though, they glow brightly with some sort of power. It can’t be just electricity, electricity doesn't look like that.

Steve pushes up his glasses and squints down.

The night shift is busy at work, assembling with practiced and fatigued movements, but the noise should help Steve avoid detection. He crouches and spots over a dozen guards with guns. He seems them push around and rough up to get them to keep working hard as hell. It makes him mad.

Steve hurries on. He eventually goes down another flight, and, panicking as he hears voices and boots on the concrete floor, rips open the closest door and hides under the first table he sees. Pressed to the floor, his nose touching the cold metal of a low shelf attached under it, he feels his heart pound in his ears as the voices get closer, pause near his door, and then pass.

Steve slips out from under the table and finally looks around, spotting a lab full of metal scrap and welding equipment. He glances at the shelves he was under and spots what appear to be metal shields, various kinds, some with spikes and the like. He makes a note of that, and picks up the only one that didn’t seem threatening, a circular one with a nice star on it.

He… he falls in love with the way it sings in his hands as he spins it around, finding leather straps on the other side. He loves the metal sheen, the shining silver and laser precise etching on the front. After hesitating, he puts it on his arm and tightens the straps. If they have guns, well, he has a shield. He notices a pistol on one of the table and grabs that too, putting it in his waistband.

The metal, the cold metal, make him shiver in more ways than one, but he continues on. He exits the room and pads down empty halls, listening out for his team. They’re called the Howling Commandos for more reason than one. True to their name, he hears shouting and bickering and snarks from two halls down, and he sneaks into a room lined with cages.

Steve stares. Cages? Of all things, they’re keeping kids locked in _cages_?

His team notices and goes dead silent.

“Holy, shit, Cap!” Gabe finally gasps. “Yo, dude, you gotta let us out!”

Frenchie starts yelling in French and Steve can’t pierce the words together yet, too alarmed and scared and angry.

Steve’s mind whirls as he see them all start begging to be let out, but- “I can’t.” He says. “They’ll know. They’ll come after me and they’ll kill us all! I can’t believe I didn't see it! We don’t have a way to escape. The guards are all in on this. If we get out, we’ll just be _‘transferred_.’”

They go silent.

“I can’t get you out,” Steve says, hopelessly. “I didn’t have a plan, I just had a fucking screwdriver and wanted to figure out what solitude was. I didn’t expect a gun factory made with _slave_ labor!”

“You have to figure this out, Cap. They said we could either join the solitary kids, or work down here, we don’t get to come up top, not after we saw what they were doing and asking what we did,” Dum-Dum said.

Steve pressed his hands to the side of his head, shaking it as he thought. “You need to-” he tries. “Okay. Okay. I can figure this out. Solitary is what?”

“The experiments,” Monty confirms. “They’re trying to make a- an injection. To make people stronger.”

“Right. Right, I knew that. Test subjects who only want cash and drugs, it’s a good ruse,” Steve confirmed. “Okay. Okay. Okay, join the workforce, see if you can start spreading dissent, or figure out who the boss is. And I’ll get something sorted. Just stay alive, and don’t ask questions, just keep ears out and do what you have to. I’ll be back, I swear.”

Steve went back to the door and tossed a look over his shoulder. He hesitated and then looked around, rushing over and handing the shield and gun to Monty. “Hide them in the vent above you. You might not be able to get through the bars yourself, but you can keep these for safe keeping.”

Steve quickly rushes back the way he came, up the stairs, past the factory, back up to the ground level, through the vents, through the ceiling, and back into his room just before check ins.

He lays awake all day just thinking about that.

Until he gets called to see Erskine, who looks almost ill and anxious.

“It’s nice to see you again, Steven,” he tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He lowers his voice. (I’m being followed. You’re correct, Steven. Someone is after the serum.)

(So you did keep working on it,) Steve concluded, frowning. (Dammit, Doc. Don’t you know how dangerous these people are?)

(I just wanted to prove that it was possible, that I could genetically engineer a super being, I- it was a mistake, of course it was. But now I fear I am in danger. I cannot destroy my life’s work, Steven. But… I can place it with the person I trust most.) Erskine slides over a book and Steve glances at the cover; War and Peace. (If I don’t have it, they won’t kill me once they get it. They may just take me to do their work, but if I can have this,) he motions to the book in Steve's hands. (If it can be safe, can be of use, to one good person, that will make it worth it to me.)

(Why shouldn’t I just destroy it?) Steve demanded.

(Because… because… it’s… it’s for you now. I don’t know if it will work. I can’t know, I have nothing to test it on, no rats, no petri dishes full of bacteria, nothing. But I am confident this is it. And since you are stuck where the epicenter of this is, my best gift to you can only be the chance to be the final success, to protect yourself.)

Steve stares at the book, having no doubt that there’s a vial of serum hidden in it. He swallows. “Thanks doc,” he says with a false grin. “You know I love reading. Early birthday present.”

“You’re welcome, Steven. I hope you enjoy it, truely. You know, I have another gift for you,” Erskine adds. “But it is not allowed in this facility, so it will have to be a surprise.”

“C’mon, give me a hint,” Steve asked.

Erskine smiled uneasily, standing. “Enjoy your book.”

Steve spends the rest of the day planning. His best bet is a mass revolt. He has to convince every one of the workers to run, to fight back, to leave. He has to stir up some serious shit in every single one of the housing sections. Well, Steve did a study on propaganda one time, he better get to work, because he’s giving it a week before he goes and busts his friends out anyway.

He starts sitting at different tables at lunch, discussing socialism, unfair business and factory practices, and has quite a few in depth conversation about safety and worker safety, noticing boys left and right starting to doubt and reconsider. Steve legit has a whole lecture in the main area about capitalism and unethical business practices and how it uses and chews up employees, standing on one of the tables as dozens of kids carefully listen in.

He tattoos barbwire around his right lower arm and wrapping around part of his hand, sharp and jagged and unyielding. He puts his prison number on his collarbone; 54985870. Over the scar on his shoulder, he writes _“She conquered her demons and wore her scars like wings. -Atticus”_

Steve talks with the drug addicts and gets them to pass messages to the Commandos, asking Frenchie to see if he can set up or locate any explosives and get some ready. Someone brings back a message that simply says, ‘ _they’re already there._ ’

That scares the shit out of Steve.

The book, War and Peace sits under his pillow for three days before he opens it. There’s a section cut out where the thin blue vial is settled lightly next to a needle and Steve stares at it, thinking of the over a dozen kids letting people inject them with chemicals for a trip, some of them not coming back. He puts that little vial in the only place he knows it’ll be safe, settled right against his hip, the elastic of his underwear keeping it in place.

Steve tattoos a gang sign on his shoulder; a lone wolf silhouette in a ring howling up at the sky, a swirly banner stating ‘HOWLING COMMANDOS’ right under it. It’s decently small and simple, about the size of a coaster, but high quality. He puts it under the tattooed _Captain_ on his right arm. The angle is tricky, but he managed to perfectly recreate the design without screwing it up. He puts a second swirly fancy banner around his title that disappears partially behind the gang sign and adds in a little more shading and detail.

He puts all of his things in that box in the ceiling. He doesn’t want anybody to steal his sketchbook to draw him anywhere, or use it against him.

* * *

Just a day before Steve wants to try to revolt, the Skulls catch wind that he has the serum.

Steve’s not too sure where they heard that, but sometime just before lunch he’s being crowded around by three guards, two Skulls, and the warden himself is striding through the halls toward him. They got him away from the cell area, away from the populated areas, so nobody could see, and he knew that meant trouble, but the warden was almost never there, so he was in deep shit. The guy had other places to be, he oversaw over a dozen ‘facilities’ in New York, and he’s an ugly motherfucker. His skin always looks waxy and fake and his name, Johann Schmidt, just has an eerie feel to it.

“So,” he says in a crisp German accent and Steve tilts his good ear to him, pushes up his glasses so he can see everyone clearly. “You are the little _rat_ that has been causing so much trouble in my facility.”

Steve doesn’t answer.

“You know what I’m here for. The serum, boy,” he demands. “Or you will regret ever stepping foot in this building.”

“That ain’t hard,” Steve sneers. “I hated being here the moment I saw the damn building.”

“Be that as it may,” the man drawls. “I would hate to have to kill you for it. It’s so messy.”

Steve swallows. “You’ve been experimenting on people.”

“I have.”

“You’ve been forcing them to make guns, to make weapons.”

“I have,” the man admits easily.

“And for what?” Steve demands.

“Well. That’s not anything you need to know. But I’ll allow you this. When my plan comes together, everybody under my lead will reap the benefits of dictatorship. And you could too. If you give me the serum right. _Now_.” Schmidt thrusts out his hand and Steve hesitates. “If you don’t, you will suffer with everyone who resists my rule and you will die with them.”

Steve pauses to consider what the man says and pulls the vial from his waistband, watching Schmidts eyes go hungry and burning. He looks power hungry, he looks like a man set for victory, he looks like a man who’s never had someone fight back and win. He looks like the kind of person Steve hates.

Steve pops the top off off of the vial and slams it back like a shot, as quick as he can, then dropping the vial and crushing it under his shoe. They all stare at him as Steve swallows and the burning blue liquid goes right down his throat, feeling hot and tasting like chemicals and the slightest hint of something that kind of tastes like the way bleach smells with a tang of floral something.

“Fuck. You.” Steve says and seconds later, he’d being dragged down to solitary as his stomach starts burning a hole in his torso, panting and writhing in pain, trying not to throw up.

It spreads and spreads and the pain builds and builds until he can’t see past it. His bones ache, his organs ache, his lungs burn with every breath. His eyes feel like they’re hot embers, but he refuses to cry. His skin feels full of needles and all he can understand from around him is that he’s dropped as he pants and cries out, scratching at his itching skin and pulling at his clothes.

He blacks out when the pain in his head make him feel like his skull is being slammed against the ground repeatedly, and the darkness is bliss.

* * *

Steve opens his eyes and the world is wrong around him. But… it’s clear. His glasses are gone and he can see fine. He tries to pushes himself up, feeling a bit dizzy as his eyes try to adjust, and finds himself strapped to a metal table in some sort of lab, over a half dozen more tables about and more than ten chairs with angled backs.

His lungs feel… fine. His stomach feels better than it ever has and… his hearing aid is long gone, but he can hear out that ear just fine. Better even. His feet don’t hurt, his heart feels great, and he… his back feels great, it feels _right_. He’s… he’s better. He feels… stronger.

Steve looks at the straps keeping him down and gets a little idea in his head. He slowly pulls his arm up, feeling resistance that doesn’t keep his arm from moving. He’s surprised when the leather strap snaps like a rubber band and he stares at his free arm. Supersoldier, he thinks, stunned, as he turns his free arm this way and that. He thinks of Erskine. He thinks of what he said, and the burning in his stomach, and the hundreds of kids getting experimented on or forced to work.

Steve rips the second strap off and then uses both free hands to yank the ones off his ankles. He spots a boy passed out on a table just a bit away and rushes over to him one he slips off his own table. He almost looks dead, but when Steve presses his hand to the boy’s neck, searching for a pulse, he finds one. Steve uneasily picks the boy up over his shoulder, and he’s surprised by how easy it is, because the boy is taller then he is, even if he’s almost as skinny.

Steve goes for the door, accidently pulling off the door handle and then shoving the door, which busts the locks. It swings fast and Steve stumbles out. He hears a crack and a body collapse and looks over to see a man passed out in full guard uniform. Steve blinks. And then he loots the mother fucker because he is not about to be caught off guard, putting the boy down gently. The utility belt is too big, but he tightens it, ditches shit he doesn’t need, picks up the kid again, and starts running.

He decks another guard as he runs and he does down immediately with a crack. Steve skids to a stop at the door where the Commandos were kept and broke the door by accident as he came in. The Commandos blinked at him.

“We’re fucking this shit up, lets go!” Steve said, and went to yank the locks off each cell. “Gabe, you start getting people to the doors, take this guy with you, you’re strong enough to do that.”

“Uh, you got it, Cap!” Gabe agrees, helping Steve transfer the passed out kid, and takes off.

(Frenchie, go blow up the factory!) Steve demands.

(Twenty minute timer!) Frenchie yells as he runs out.

Monty hands over the shield, but keeps the gun himself and suddenly Dum-Dum, Jim, and Monty are all that’s left. “You guys,” Steve says. “Go help with evacuations. I’m going to clear the way, so be ready to point me at the doors we need broken.”

“Right!” Dum-Dum agrees, “Let’s go, boys!”

Steve leads the charge knocking down guard after guard as the alarm starts wailing, signaling the countdown to the explosion. Steve uses the shield to bust door after door, splitting metal, breaking off locks, and they make it down to the factory level, where boys are fighting guards, there's total chaos everywhere, the alarm is blaring, guards are facing the enraged fear of over a hundred boys. Some of them are firing the guns, but many are too scared to fire them at people.

“Hey!” Steve yells, and nobody hears him, so he grabs the gun off his belt and fires three shots at the ceiling, the singing ringing loud in the area. The chaos dies down just a bit as eyes turn on him. “We gotta evacuate, the place is gonna blow in less than twenty minutes! Everybody to the exit! _Now_!”

The following stampede is pretty impressive, and leaves a trail of half conscious and staggering guards who weakly follow after. Steve bolts after the boys, watching his friends helping those who stumble and fall. Some of them head to different doors, to different cell blocks, and look back uncertainty as they find them locked.

Steve grabs one of the guns, a hardy sized handgun that fits in his hand pretty well, with the same blue glow in the handel as the other, larger, guns, and aims it at the door. Boys back out of the way and Steve shoots a hole in the metal with one nice clean blue beam. It looked a lot like the gunfire from a star wars movie, only in blue. Steve considers the gun, impressed, and grabs two more of the little battery packs for it.

“Learn by example,” he offers, and a few take glowing blue guns as well. He shoves he glowing gun in his waistband, puts the ammo in one of the empty pouches, and keeps going.

Steve manages to get through the pack and up to the locked doors leading them to the upper levels of the factory, where the cat walk is, punching the lock with the edge of his stolen shield. The metal splits and breaks and the doors swing open, letting Steve run ahead to the next doors. Gabe is waiting by the exit door with the kid in his arms and at least twenty other teens waiting with him, only they’re not trying to get out, they’re trying to keep the doors closed as upwards of ten guards on the other side try to force their way inside.

“Outta the way when I hit the door!” Steve shouts, putting the shield out front, and everybody looks his way, pressing themselves against the door, still, but shifting to spring out of the way. Steve ran as hard as he could, gaining all the speed he was able to, and he rams into the double doors, both breaking and going flying through the air, slamming into the guards and knocking them ass over kettle in a daze. Steve and his stampede flow into the main part of the building.

“Everybody get to the exit!” Steve yells. “The building's gonna blow!”

He watches the boys run to get their friends, to pound their fists on doors, get into buddy systems. It’s chaos and of course it is, with the alarm blaring, the guards trying to keep everybody from escaping but getting the shit kicked out of them, and Steve leading a charge of angry teens who have been beaten, hurt, and used by these guards. Steve breaks the doors, he yells for an evacuation, he punches guards coming at him with guns and tasers and breaks doors until he’s in the security room, slamming button to release all cell blocks, seeing doors open and kids run and shout, warned by the working kids from their quarters.

After he makes sure everybody is running, that the doors are all open, that the security feed shows people are getting out, even the stupid guards, Steve runs after them until he’s out a set of open double doors, and the sun is on his skin. The area floods with fleeing guards, fleeing inmates, fleeing staff and medics and Steve urges them further, away from the building.

“As far as you can get!” he orders. “I’m not fucking around, get your asses in gear!”

They eventually settle just under the treeline to regroup, and Steve tracks down his friends and finds one missing. “Where’s Frenchie?” he asks, fear curling in his gut.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Monty says, staring at the building.

“How long do we have left?!” Steve yells.

“Maybe nine minutes,” Dum-Dum says breathlessly, and Steve turns tail and runs as fast as his legs can carry him. Frenchie went to set off the bombs. He had to be stuck, trapped. Maybe captured.

He counted in his head. He has eight minutes. He’d count to 300 and turn back, as much as it pained him to. By thirty he was back down the hall towards the stairs going into the depths. By sixty he was checking the cells. By one hundred he was checking halls he’d never been in before.

By one hundred and thirty he was dashing across a walkway over to some sort of observational room. He broke the door and found Frenchie splayed across the floor, blood at his temple. There was some sort of generator thing that was opened up, a protective glass covering lifted up and a large slot of something missing from the center. Frenchie must have been in there when someone came to get whatever was running the place. Cursing, he picked up his friend, hauling him over his shoulder. He turned and started running back the way he came, down halls and over catwalks.

Preliminary explosions start going off and Steve feels panic light up in his chest. He thought he had more time! He’s only at two hundred and ten! He keeps running, desperation making him pick up the speed, Frenchie’s comfort be damned, darting across catwalks, through halls, over broken bits of wall and ceiling that have shaken loose, but he skids to a stop when he sees Schmidt. He’s too stunned to not. The guy was just… _there_ , by some sort of exit on the other side of the catwalk, parallel to the one up to the cells.

The man was about to walk through, but he turned when he heard Steve running and skidding to a halt, and now he looks pissed, starting slowly across the cat walk to pause in the middle of it.

He’s still in his dark uniform, still looks waxy and shitty, but now he’s holding a cube, a glowing blue cube, with some kind of device, like a clamp. Steve glanced downstairs as similarly colored weapons start going up in the flames spilling out of the wall and over the floor, broken rubble falling and breaking them, and supposes that he found that mysterious energy source.

Probably the same energy source from the generator. Probably the same person who knocked Frenchie out. The same person who did all of _this_.

Steve feels mad, anger burning up him all the way, making him feel hotter than a bull in the sun, angrier than a pissed off alley cat and twice as mean.

Frenchie groans and shifts and Steve doesn’t break eye contact as he sets the boy down. Frenchie looks around, hand to his temple, the other braces on Steve’s shoulder, and spots Schmidt. (Get out of here,) Steve says, and shifts his shield.

“Cap-” Frenchie tries and flinches when Schmidt pulls out a gun and fires it at the ceiling, one of the blue ones that can punch through metal doors.

“I would recommend taking his advice, little boy,” Schmit sneers.

“Go!” Steve snaps, shoving Frenchie toward the exit a bit. “Get out! I’ve got him!”

Frenchie gives a tight nod and runs, hauling ass up the stairs and out of sight. Steve looks back at the man standing on the catwalk and takes a tiny breath as he steps out onto it as well, not as far as Schmidt, so he can run if he needs to, because the building is actively exploding, who the hell would keep fighting when the building was going to come down, but still accepting the challenge.

Schmit sneers. “So Dr. Erskine managed it after all. Not exactly an improvement,” he says, noting Steve’s height and unchanged build. “But still impressive.” He turns and fires his gun at Steve’s center mass, but Steve swats the bolt away with his shield, hoping that works, and it whizzes past the man’s shoulder to hit the wall behind him instead, leaving a scorched mark. Guess it does.

“You’ve got no idea,” Steve replied, watching Schmidt put the gun away after minor consideration of the burn mark and wondering why.

“Haven’t I?” he asks, stepping forward and Steve puts up the shield, ready for anything. He’s surprised, after breaking so many doors and punching guards out with no issue, that the punch Schmidt delivers to it knocks him clean off his feet, sprawling back until he shifts back, shield still up and this time ready. “No matter what he might say, I was his greatest success!”

He then proceeds to peels his own god damn face off as Steve stares in disgust. He looks like a wax red skeleton, with sharp cheekbones and disgusting features. He doesn’t even have a _nose_. He dropped the mask down into the fires starting to spill out of the walls below.

“Ew!” Steve says, recoiling, his stomach fighting him as he tries to focus. “Ugh, put that back on! Gross!” Steve stares some more. “It’s so ugly I can’t look away, it’s like watching trains crash.”

“You insolent rat,” Schmidt sneers. “I am a product of one of Erskine’s serums as well, and I have used this to build a web that covers the world. My empire will not die because one base of operation falls,” Schmidt growls.

“No,” Steve allows, because he has a point there. “But it’s a start.”

He throws the shield, and honestly he wasn’t sure how well that would work, but it hits hard and true, knocking the red faced bastard back across the catwalk. Schmidt drops the cube during the impact, knocking the clamp off and sending that metal piece down into the fiery pits below, and Steve notes that before spotting the shield coming back like a boomerang. He catches it and slips it back on easy as that before jumping for the cube.

He’s swiftly kicked in the chin by what has to be a steel toes boot and goes sprawling, pain flashing through his jaw, then putting up his shield to block the three bolts of blue that Schmidt fires at him as he picks up the cube.

Steve watches as the cube in Schmidt’s hand starts burning his skin, setting his whole palm on fire and the man yells before dropping it again, cursing and clutching his hand close to his chest, trying to stifle out the flames that burn off his black glove.

Steve uses that moment to go in for it, a quick jab, ducking under a swing and blocking a kick, then a jab and an uppercut. Schmidt punches Steve in the face and he spits blood before blocking the next blow and punching Schmidt in the sternum with the edge of the shield. Schmit stumbles back, steps on the edge of his long black leather cloak, and falls onto the catwalk, cursing and pulling himself up.

Steve, figuring if he played hot potato with the cube it wouldn’t burn his hand, grabs it with his fingertips now that he has the chance, expecting a burn to start but… nothing. It just feels like hot glass, like it has lightning in a bottle, a heartbeat in a jar. It feels… alive, and angry, but not at him.

Schmidt and he both stare at that in silence and Steve notices that where he touches the cube, blackness sweeps down, covering his skin. It’s not burning, but-

Steve stands suddenly, feeling _-something-_ burning inside him, but not in pain, in electricity and an awareness he can’t comprehend opens up to him. He feels like he’s _more_ now, he can feel space around him, and he hold the cube up, knowing what it will do before it even does it. The space he feels opens up around them, blackness and twinkling stars surrounding them as a supernova of color grabs the man. Schmidt is ripped him from the catwalk while he screams and he’s pulled into the dark depths.

Steve can feel the power building in his chest, can feel his mind start to get dizzy and fuzzy, feel himself start becoming something _else_ and drops the cube just before the blackness spotted with glittering stars reaches his wrist. It clunks against the catwalk and Steve comes back to himself, blinking wildly and clutching his hand to his chest. He had felt so… distant, so spread out. It was terrifying.

He watches the blackness vanish from his hand and brings the hand up to his chest, looking at it this way and that. No damage done. No burning, no marks, no more blackness.

The building rumbles, bigger explosions start going off one by one in the debts, getting closer, and Steve desperately takes the shield off his arm and tosses the cube inside it, settled between the handle and arm strap. Taking that as it is, Steve turns tail and runs, thinking ‘I wish this shield was easier to carry around sometimes’ and the blue cube flashes, blue buzzing in the seams, the carved parts of his shield, outlining then, and Steve is left trying to grab at a silvery curved star with the cube settled on it neatly, like a little silver plater. The handle and strap are gone, as is the rest of the shield, but it is a lot easier to carry that way while running, like a small plate instead of a baking sheet.

‘Thanks,’ Steve thinks hysterically and thinks the cube glows smugly in reply. Which is… very concerning.

Explosions rock the facility and shake the stairs as Steve starts up them, making his heart beat like a drum and rubble and dust shake down from the ceiling, but he pushes and keeps running, the star from the shield in his hands, then pressed against his chest because that seems to work in a pinch. Turns out, cube doesn’t like clothes, or Steve has enough layers to avoid skin to skin contact.

He rushes through halls, up stairs, through rooms as the ground under him shakes and crumbles in areas and makes it outside with just a little time to spare. He’s halfway back to the group cowering as far as they can from the building, near the tree lines, when it blows.

Steve drops to the ground, dropping the cube and holding the metal star up like it will protect him in that size, and is relieved when it comes back to normal and he finds himself holding a large disk instead. He covers himself and the cube as much as possible with the shield, opening his eyes to see earth roaring up like a reverse avalanche and fire and smoke billowing wildly about, unwieldy as the series of explosions go off, taking everything into the depths with it. Steve felt something clink off his shield, something other than shrapnel and pieces of rock, and he looked over to see the metal box he kept his tattooing supplies and sketchbook in.

The rumbling stops a minute later, leaving gaping nothing where the juvenile detention building once was and there’s utter silence in the air for a full two minutes. Sirens are heard in the distance and Steve snaps out of his staring to grab his box. He looks down at the cube next to him and takes it, quickly putting it inside the bent box and shutting it before the blackness bleeds up his arm again. He looks at the shield in his hands and tentatively wants it to be smaller. It doesn’t flash, not like last time, but the lines of it glow blue and the rest of the shield vanishes to who knows where. Steve shoves it up the front of his shirt and wills his undershirt keep it pretty much where it is. It doesn’t, because he’s still skinny and small, and everything hangs off his frame like always, so Steve tucks his shirt into his pants to keep it against his stomach that way before heading over to the masses watching the destruction burn out.

Steve sort of zoned out, sitting with his friends with his charred and dented box in his lap as emergency services swarmed over the area.

Hundreds of kids spoke to the police officers and detectives and firefighters and who swarmed to the area. They told them about the weapons they built, about the experiments, about Schmidt. They talked about the Skulls, who were grouping with the guards, staying dead silent.

The kids talked about Steve, and how he saved them all and at least three cops patted him on the back. Steve doesn’t want to think about all the people that were still in when the building blew, but he does every time a cop says, ‘good job, kid.’ All the guards who got knocked out, beaten up, and left behind. He thinks, instead, of all the kids he helped, knowing he got every one of them, at least. All the innocents.

A firefighter drops a shock blanket over his shoulders, a EMT offers to look at him, and when Steve says no, gives him a wet wipe to wipe the blood off his face, from his nose. He takes that to at least mop his face up.

Steve thinks of the new strength he has in his body, and the shield under his shirt and wonders what that means now.

SHIELD arrives minutes later, a bit after the police officers started securing off the scene, and take over. The emergency services stay, but they’re pushed aside as a helicopter is called in and agents in black suits and uniforms start organizing all the escapees into groups. They start figuring out what happened, connecting puzzle pieces and subtly discussing related missions as they point out specific faces from the crowd of adults, finding faces in criminal databases the police don’t have access to, and putting guards and Skulls and even a few of the nurses or doctors into black vans.

People talk to agents and point at Steve. Suddenly, there are eyes and a lot of them.

Someone speaks into a walkie talkie, and within thirty minutes, Steve is being asked to stand up and get into a van as well. With a look toward his team, who are raising a little hell with agents blocking them from getting to Steve, Steve gets in the van with his stuff and the door shuts. They don’t search him. They don’t find the gun, they don’t take the belt, they don’t take the shield, and they don’t take the box he’s cradling to his chest.

This shouldn’t be procedure, Steve thinks hysterically, still in a daze and looking through the back windows, because there are windows with mesh in them, at the nearly level land where the building once was.

The van isn’t one for containment. It looks more set up for simple transportation, and he sits and waits as the van starts moving, then stopping about thirty or so minutes later.

He’s asked to get out of the van and is led through a building, having come out in some sort of parking garage. He’s tense, of course he is, but he has his shield, and his box, and a whole gun in his waistband, and that’s enough for now. He’s put into an interrogation room and waits for another thirty minutes. Luckily, they gave him a bottle of water and an apple, so he feels a little better after that, but the wait was boring. He feels a little calmer after eating, a little more settled, had a little time to process, so he pulls out his sketchbook and starts thinking.

“ ‘Insolent rat,’ ” he says in consideration. “Well. Fine. Guess I am.”

He starts drawing something he plans to put on his body later in ink, putting the start of a geometric rat on the paper, one beady eye staring back at the observer. He’d find the time to shade it and clean it up later, but he wants it on his neck. One side the bear claw, one side the rat. That way, people already know what to expect out of him. They should see it and know.

The door opens and Steve looks over, expecting some stranger, some agent, some nameless person who would interview him and send him on his merry way. Instead he sees-

“Miss Carter!” he gasps, and shoots off his chair, pretty much bowling her over as he wraps his arms around her, so glad she’s here, because she’s the best, she's nice and smart, and kickass and familiar.

“Oof, Steven!” she exclaims, and hugs him right back. “Darling boy, what mess did you get into this time?”

“You ain’t gonna believe what happened,” he says, laughing. “Oh my god, I didn’t think I’d see you again!”

“Oh, I’m not that easy to get rid of, you know,” she tuts, pushing back his hair, which feels nice. “Come now, let's not talk here. If you were anybody else, I might insist upon it, but not with you. I have an office here, and I’ll make us tea, for old times sake.”

“Please,” Steve begs, and spares just a moment to grab his sketchbook before following her out.

Her office is bare, but comfortable, with a kettle and everything. He’s so relieved to get familiar smelling tea that he holds the mug for a moment even though it burns, just to breath in the scented steam. He puts it on the desk and shakes off his hot hands.

“So, I was told that you were somewhat at the epicenter of this mess,” Miss Carter says. “That you saved pretty much everybody in the buildings. Can you just tell me what happened?”

Steve wishes he didn’t have to, but it’s _Miss Carter._ She’s the one person he could trust with the whole story. Or, at least, the parts he wants to talk about. He started speaking about the exhausted kids, the solitary kids who came back with spare change and drugs. He spoke about the guards letting the solitary kids and working kids into a door that was locked for everybody else. He talked about the Skulls and how they targeted kids, kept people in line, so they got sent away if they found weakness, coming back or not coming back, who snooped about and preyed on the weak.

He spoke about asking questions, about getting his friends to do a little investigation, and getting attacked for his trouble, for the Skulls to get his friends sent to solitary. He explained how he snuck through the vents to find a factory underground, and kids getting beaten into working, forced to keep on, exhausted and bruised and beaten by guards if they didn’t keep up the pace.

He told Miss Carter about how he found his friend in cages, and promised to make a plan and come back. He said he started spreading dissent, speaking about worker rights, about being safe, about the missing inmates who never came back from solitary.

He doesn’t say a work of Erskine or the serum. That feels… too dangerous. He doesn’t want people to know that he can pretty much punch doors off their hinges, not even Miss Carter. It’s too new, too frightening. Instead, he says he was cornered by guards and interrogated by Johann Schmidt because they heard him speaking of an uprising and getting boys to start considering working at all. He said he was taken to a cell downstairs, away from his friends, and he escaped because he was just thin enough to sneak through the vents there. He says he freed his friends and told Frenchie to blow the place, because he found that the place was rigged to go off if it needed to be.

Steve spoke about the chaos of evacuating hundreds of terrified and furious boys, and then going back for Frenchie. He explained how he found him knocked out in the observation room, near the bomb controls, and carried him out. He told Miss Carter about facing off against Schmidt and the cube, fighting just like she taught him. He twisted the story a bit, of course, but the basics stayed the same.

He says the cube burned Schmidt, but when he picked up the cube, it didn’t hurt, and he felt the energy, used it to open space above Schmidt and make him disappear.

He told Miss Carter that he dropped the cube before he lost himself, and ran.

“You’d make a great SHIELD agent,” Miss Carter praises after the story. “You conducted your own investigation with a small group and found a secret organization without outside aid and put a stop to everything it was doing. That’s very impressive.” Miss Carter watches him for a moment. “And where’s the cube now?” he asks.

Steve glances at his charred and bent box, then at Miss Carter. “I see,” she says. “Well, rest assured, that cube will be safe with me.”

“If I could trust anyone with it, it would be you,” Steve agreed, relieved, because that was… keeping it wasn’t an option. That power would attract a lot of people, and he wouldn’t know what to do with it, hot to keep it safe and contained. If it could start turning him into something _more_ than he was by touch, what would simple proximity do?

Miss Carter rummages around and pulls out a briefcase from between a pair of file cabinets. She dumps out the contents and offers it. It would do in a pinch, and Steve quickly transferred the cube from his beat up box to her sleek briefcase and watched the blue glow vanish with the click of the case locking.

“It’s a special briefcase as well, don’t you worry,” she adds, putting it under her desk for now. “Not so flimsy as one you buy as a store.”

Steve grins tiredly. Miss Carter glances at some papers on her desk and Steve sips his tea, which has cooled to manageable levels now. She frowns and looks upset, hesitant.

“Steven, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid that’s unavoidable right now. You know Doctor Abraham Erskine, correct?”

Steve tensed, and she sighed.

“This file says you used to be his foster child, and I’m sure he’s been visiting you. He is… a kind man. As of this morning, he’s a missing person. His house has been ransacked, and the only reason we think he’s missing and not dead is because the people who took him likely didn’t find what they were looking for. Has he said anything to you about a serum, or people he was suspicious of recently?”

Steve thought quickly because he was not about to admit to downing the vial of liquid like a shot, the liquid that tasted like chemicals and bleach and a hint of flowers. “I know he used to work on something like that,” Steve started. “But there was an attack where he worked and they dropped the project.”

“They did, but we think he might have not stopped with them,” Miss Carter said. “Because that project ran through my organization and he, the head scientist, is now missing.”

Steve took a breath, pushing down the anxiety that built at hearing that Erskine was missing. “He said he gave it to somebody he knew it would be safe with,” he admitted, because that wasn’t really lying.

Miss Carter nodded and sighed. “Alright. Well. After today, I can reasonably have all your charges dropped and have you placed with a SHIELD based foster family, for your protection. It’ll be pretty much the same as it was, just your guardians will be able to protect you should anybody come looking for revenge. The Red Skull, or Johann Schmidt as you identified him, was the head of a major neo-nazi-based organization we don’t know much about. With him dead, or gone, at least, there may be someone who wants to find out who did it.”

“Can’t I go with you?” Steve asks, because he wants that so much more than anything else, with all that’s happened.

Miss Carter sighs. “I’m afraid not. I’m in no position to take care of you right now. I’m busy, I don’t even live in an apartment, just at whatever SHIELD base I’m stations at for the time, and you won’t be safe with me, not with the enemies I have. I’m sorry, dear boy. There is no way a foster agency or an adoption agency would approve, and again, I won’t agree to it either, for your protection.”

Steve sighs. “Of course. That…” He fights the burst of pain and longing in his chest and wraps his arms around the shield over his stomach, feeling the points dig into his skin. “Makes sense. It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but Steve wouldn’t stoop that low. He respected Miss Carter too much for that, and she was right in a lot of ways. It just hurt, to have her so close yet to be so far.

“I’m going to be very busy managing this mess, but I can have an agent take you anywhere you want before we bring you to where the rest of your fellow inmates are being housed until this is cleaned up.”

Steve thinks for a moment. “I could really use something to eat,” he admits, suddenly starving.

“Well,” she smiles lightly. “I hope you enjoy your lunch, and I will see you again soon. All right?”

“Okay,” Steve agrees.

He was driven to a McDonalds, where he ordered food enough for both him and his friends, and then bustled to a holding facility where all the other convicts were settled in, pretty much just a massive area with bunks, sort of like a homeless shelter.

Steve found the Commandos holed up in the back and he sunk into the group when it started yelling up a storm, grabbing at him and pulling him into the safety of the group. Monty cheered the existence of food, carried by the agent, and Steve was so exhausted that he didn’t even have it in him to reply to any of their questions or say ‘you’re welcome for the food.’ He’s pretty sure he passed out in Gabe’s arms.

* * *

(He woke up on a mattress, pressed against Dum-Dum’s legs and his back against Frenchie’s own. He could feel the grit of salt under his arm, from the food clearly eaten hours ago, and he glanced around. They had pulled the mattresses off the bunks and leaned two against bunks and put one in the middle to make a sort of curved bedded area. Most of the Commandos were sleeping on the incline, though Gabe was on the flat part, snoring softly and curled up into a ball. Dum-Dum, who was sleeping in a half upright position, was snoring loud as shit, and when Steve glanced up, he noticed that someone tied a sheet between the two bunks to tent the area off and then made a wall with another on the side facing out into the main area, which made it feel much more cozy, like a little cave, or a tent.

Steve pulled a blanket higher up, to cover his shoulders, and closed his eyes again.)

* * *

He was taken to a foster home the next day. Steve didn’t really have a lot of time to say goodbye to the guys, but he was pulled in to a massive group hug as Gabe ruffled his hair, Jim wrapped an arm around his shoulders, Dum-Dum patted his back roughly, with a lot of emotion, Monty put his head against Steve’s neck, and Frenchie kissed each of Steve’s cheeks twice, partially for saving his life.

They didn’t take the utility belt from him, which was nice, and they even gave him a bag for his things. He kept the star of the shield and everything else he had in the bag offered for ease of transportation. Still nobody took the guns. It was really wild. He was lead outside to his CPS agent, who looked a little bewildered as she stood outside the building.

“Hey, Mrs. Malgrave,” Steve says, climbing in the car as she waved him on. She got in the driver's seat and eyed him as he tossed his stuff in the back, then noticing all of his stuff from Erskine’s. They must have picked it up, because everything was neatly put together. He could even see his leather jacket, and when he pulled it out of the bag and looked at it, he noticed a new patch. The one Erskine showed him before he was taken to juvie. Steve feels his expression soften and heart clench. Erskine must have put it on after Steve left.

He glances back again and also notices some sort of case and a small speaker system. His heart rate increases as he pulls it oven and flips the latches, gasping in wonder as he finds a beautiful blue electric guitar, a truly gorgeous specimen.

“Holy shit,” he says, and then grabs the little sticky note stuck in the strings.

**_Happy belated birthday, Steven! I hope you like your gift and have good luck in your next home. Please continue to be the good man I know you’ll become. Sincerely, Dr. Erskine._ **

“Aw, thanks, Doc,” Steve mumbles, even though his heart ached, and closed the case so he can get buckled.

“You look different,” Mrs. Malgrave offers, examining his tattoos.

“Eh, well. Prison does that to you,” he jokes, finding a plastic bag of his earrings, his tongue ring, and his eyebrow ring. His dad’s dog tags were with them and he pulled that around his head first.

She sighs, but her lips twitch. “Well, this all might make it harder for you to get adopted,” she said warningly.

Steve gives her a look. “What makes you think I wanna get adopted at this point? I’m planning on aging out,” Steve shrugged as he pushed the bar through his tongue and fastened the top bell. He pauses suddenly, glad that the serum didn’t fix all his piercing holes. “And if they don’t like the looks of me, fuck ‘em. That’s not my goddamn problem.”

She sighed again sadly. “You’ll find a family,” she says convincingly. “Maybe this one SHIELD is providing will… enjoy your personality!”

Steve scoffs, politely, as he puts his industrial earring in. “No offense, but I don’t think any family wants a fucked up fifteen-year-old punk who went to juvie for assault, has tattoos on his face, and blew up a building.”

Malgrave winces and then takes a breath to steel herself. “People will surprise you.”

Steve gives her a doubtful look back.

* * *

His new foster family is another straight couple. They’re not both crazy white Christians this time though. The ‘dad’ is Indian-American (not Native American) and the ‘mom’ is, well, actually, yeah, white, but nicer and not freakishly skinny. Her eyes and smile aren’t sharp like a shark's and she seems genuinely welcoming. She actually has skin on her bones, just a tad plump.

Of course, they’re SHIELD agents, so their house is super secure and has one of the best security systems in the world, and Steve is unable to get himself to do a look around without making sure the kitchen isn’t as secure, and the relief he feels when he sees food out in the open should make him feel as good as he does.

They let him set up a Skype account on their computer to get in contact with Bucky. On his new bed, he waits for Bucky to accept the call and when Bucky’s face appears, Steve immediately frowns, recognizing that something was wrong.

“Hey, punk,” Bucky says, cracking a tired grin that looks brittle at best. His eyes look exhausted, a little lost, a little broken. “How’ve you been?”

“Just got out of juvie,” Steve explained, carefully watching him, not bringing up the shit show that actually happened. “Not too bad, kinda fun in some ways. Got some tattoos and battle scars. How ‘bout you?”

The grin drops off Bucky’s face and he rubs his forehead. “Pretty shit, actually.”

“Yeah? Why come?”

“Listen,” Bucky said and his words sound heavy, like lead, deadly serious and dull. “It’s kind of a long story and it ain’t a pretty one. The gist of it is that I’m fucked up now and what I tell you, you need to never say to another living soul. I am not fucking around here Steve. What I tell you, you keep your gob shut about.”

Shit. This had to be really bad. Steve was mentally preparing to hear something fucked up but dread kept building in his stomach. “I won’t say a word, Bucky. Scouts honor,” Steve says. He hesitates and around, finding his headphones. He plugs them in and turns back to Bucky. “I’ll help if I can.”

Then Bucky tells him. He rambles about the abuse, the neglect, the torture, starts telling him about HYDRA and Pierce. He tells Steve about the brainwashing and gaps in his memories, the blood and the nightmares, and uncertainty and the brutality. The scars woven into his skin and the mystery behind them. There are glistening tears on Bucky’s face by the time his horace voice peters out, and Steve is boiling with fury while his heart aches for his best friend.

“Fucking hell, Bucky,” Steve swears. “God, if I was there-”

“They’d kill you, Stevie,” Bucky says bluntly. “That’s why I’m not even in that fucking building. I can’t risk your life for this. And calling the cops won’t do anything. They’re too good. You call the cops, next thing we know an entire precinct has been blown up or everybody shot dead and no leads. I just… I need you to know. It helps, if someone knows.”

“Your burden is mine too,” Steve promised, and he meant it, he’d keep his lips shut for Bucky’s sake. “But, God, I wish alla this never happened.”

“I know. But, y’know, it ain’t all bad.” Steve watches Bucky struggle to make up excuses, trying to convince himself that it could be worse when Steve can’t see a single way how. “I don’t remember what they make me do, and the place they’re training me has this girl, Natasha, who’s kinda like me. We’re buddies. She’s nice, and dangerous, but talented, and funny, and a hell of a dame.”

“Yeah? I look forward to meetin’ her.” Steve looks forward to meeting the lady who is keeping Bucky sane in the face of insanity.

“Told her about you, actually,” Bucky says, half absently, still staring into the distance a bit. “She likes you already. She’s awesome, Steve. Can fight like hell. She’s a hurricane in a feather boa and jumbo sunglasses. She sings 80’s tunes and rocks karaoke.”

Steve grins. “Sounds like a hell of a girl.”

After they end the call, Steve spends a minute with his head in his hands.

Fucking Christ. _Bucky._

The worst thing is, Steve has a feeling he knows exactly what these people are capable of, a deep unsettled despairing feeling that fills his chest and stomach like thick bitter cough medicine. That serum they used to speed Bucky’s recovery? Well, Steve’s heard a thing or two about that from Erskine, how it was stolen. When they raided Erskine's research facility, they killed almost twenty guards and injured another thirty. These are the kind of guys that don’t fuck around and knowing that they’re using Bucky to do their dirty work?

It makes Steve feel like the worst person in the world as his stomach rolls. When did life get so complicated and feel so wrong?

* * *

The rest of summer is supposed to pass by easily, but every night he goes to bed he think of Erskine and what happened at Azzano. Erskine is still missing, and Schmidt’s empire has to still exist, the guards were tight lipped as hell, and there was nothing in the news about SHIELD ending any terrorist organizations, so that meant that they were still there.

When he can’t sleep, he gets up and grabs his tattooing kid, cleaning up the tattoos on his body and putting that rat he designed on his neck. It’s then, one night, when he’s examining the tattoos on his knuckles, that he notices that the black spots, the ones he filled in, weren’t normal black any more. It looked like how his hand did, the inky blackness of space glittering with stars, distant stars and galaxies and planets. Steve, a little alarmed, tries to wash that off, hoping it’s- it’s _glitter_ on his hands, and when he finds that it’s not, it’s stuck, he goes out and gets a fingerless gloves that covers the tattoos there. Makes him look bad ass too.

When he has nightmares, he grabs the star out of his bag and lays with it settled on his chest, protecting his heart. The weight and feel makes him feel safer, better, and hugging it to keep it in place is a sure fire way to help himself get to sleep. It still unfolds when he wants it to, but he doesn’t have a lot of use for it that way at the moment.

One night, pretty much just a week into his stay, Steve stares at the ceiling and thinks and thinks and thinks. He abandons his attempt to sleep, gets up, and goes to his desk, grabbing his iPod and sketchbook and box, sitting down and getting to work.

He helped people, by taking up that shield and finding out Schmidt’s plan, destroying the facility he built. He could do it again. All he needs to do is be more prepared and look into what he can. His foster parents are SHIELD agents. They have access to the systems that will help Steve find out what needs doing and get it done, one way or another. He could find Erskine.

During the day, he learns to play the guitar with youtube videos. The foster parents complain about the noise sometimes. During the night, he counts his money and sneaks out to get supplies. He gets a black hoodie, a new one, and manages to scrounge up money for a cheap bullet proof vest. He makes himself a harness for his shield. It takes a few tries and a few designs attempts, but after about a week, he has a well fitting harness made from buckles and leather. It holds the fully opened shield on his back, and he can also put the retracted star on the front, right over his heart. To keep in style with the star, he adds a few dark silver patches to the hood, one medium sized on on each shoulder, and a pair on the front pockets of the dark grey cargo pants he buys.

What he has so far goes well with his stolen security guard belt. In it he has a heavy duty flashlight, a stun gun, mace, the blue energy gun with the extra rounds, a pair of handcuffs with the key, and a walkie talkie. Not bad, all and all. Steve buys a pair of knee pads, a pair of elbow pads, and new shoes, black and white running shoes that fit his feet and have soft bottoms to minimize noise. He gets a pair of cover goggles, black ones with a reflective outside and an American flag bandana to tie around his head and cover his mouth.

He start spying on his foster parents, watching hands type in security passwords and keeping that memorized information in the back of his mind. He logs on when they’re sleeping and scans information, reading into locations, into names and faces and information that SHIELD has on all these criminals and organizations. He keeps track of lists, of suspected transports that happened, everything he could use to find Erskine.

During the day, he goes out and looks around the town, thinking on things. He’s already enrolled for sophomore year, so he tours the school grounds, if not the inside, and walks around the shops in town. While exploring, he noticed this one place, the Red Room, a ballet facility. A big one with a tall iron fence around it with dark accenting designs marking the tops of it. He didn’t know they came with courtyards and stuff. As he glances through the metal bars, he notices that one of the windows is boarded up from the inside. Weird.

He finds the local mall and the park is pretty nice too.

He spends a lot of time at the library reading comic books or reading advanced texts about espionage and historical infiltration missions and attracting stares from parents and small children. The teens stare too, but they’re more subtle about it. The librarians have seen so much shit that they don’t give one. As long as he leaves the place clean and returns the books, he’s a solid citizen in their eyes.

He finds a gym and starts trying to figure out his new limits. He turns out to be too strong to do so, lifting alarming amounts for his size and then avoiding going there, instead sneaking out at night and lifting cars, pulling bulldozes across hard dirt, doing hundreds and hundreds of push ups in his room.

Flushing his unneeded meds down the toilet, putting an inactive hearing aid in his ear. Wearing glasses that he bought that are just clear plastic.

Steve makes a map of all possible locations across the eastern seaboard of bases, hide outs, weapon exchanges, and the like. There’s one in Jersey the city that he suspects Erskine is being held at based off his compiled information, which isn’t great. The biggest problem he has is getting places, but he does know how to hotwire cars. And there are a lot of cars around. He considers it closely and the grey morality of it.

Steve stares at himself in the mirror at night, two and a half weeks after he arrives and looks at the symbols he put on his temple, near his eye, that had meaning then, but seem so silly now. They were meant to be a rebellion. Face tattoos on a scrawny punk, to make people see what he was and what he did. A new reality, a will if there's a way. Now they mean nothing more then chicken scratch in the dirt, it represented survival in what was a slave labor camp in disguise. They didn’t feel right anymore, not the way everything else did.

He… he wanted something new. He went to his room and grabbed his sketchbook, sketching the initial marks and working around them for a cover up. He thought about winning, he thought about beating Schmidt, and he thought about glittering stars, not surprised as all to see a vaguely minimalist space and star pattern appear on the page, with blackness holding about a dozen flicking stars of various sizes, not star shaped of course. The tattoos was shaped like a crescent moon and didn’t have sharp borders, just space fading in and out, like his skin bled into it instead of a hole being punched in the side of his head.

With that all settled, he went back to the bathroom, sketched his design into the side of his face, the tattoo vaguely wrapping around his eye, sort of like Mike Tyson, but more focused on the temple, then sort of cradling the top of his cheek bone, just under the end of his eye and just over his eyebrow.

He finished it up before morning, because his skin healed faster than it ever did before, and he could pretty much just keep going, within limits for safe tattooing, of course. He wasn’t about to load one spot with ink and hurt himself, but he didn’t need to wait for it to heal for days or weeks to continue anymore.

Steve puts his equipment away and turns his head to look at the pink skin surrounding black. It looks good. He sees the little stars in the darkness and he sighs, feeling a weight off his shoulder for some reason.

When his foster parents see in the morning, they ask if he could not do that anymore. Steve glares at them and doesn’t say a word. He wasn’t planning on any more tattoos as of last night, but now he wants to _cover_ himself in them.

A day or so later, he gets wind of a Black Lives Matter protest and joins it because that’s something he supports well and truly and it gets him out of the house. Away from the foster parents at least.

The city isn’t too big, but they’ve had a pretty big scandal when a pair of cops shot and killed an unarmed pair of African American teenagers over something stupid, so the black community and those others who have a conscious and some basic morals joined in. It isn’t fair that black people aren’t treated equally in the eyes of the law, by media, or law enforcement.

The logic is, if _Dylann fucking Roof_ can get walked out of a massacre of his own making in a bulletproof vest escorted by cops, then a black kid with a toy gun should be able to avoid getting shot to death. It isn’t fucking rocket science. Really. It’s basic ethics at most.

A month before school starts, he’s on his way dressed in his black leather jacket with the grey hood and a protest sign. Under his shirt, he’s wearing his shield in it’s harness, the star over his heart, over the eagle tat there. The protest is in hot swing when he arrives, and he takes his place among the throngs of angry people, people he identifies the best with.

An hour into the protest, when the cops fire tear gas into the increasingly agitated crowd, Steve grabs the canister out of the air (he’s such an idiot, Bucky would be _pissed_ ) and throws it back just as it goes off.

It goes to shit because the cops get nervous and nervous people with firearms have impulse control issues. As they push forward, the more aggressive and agitated group pushes right back. They start getting confrontational, firing rubber bullets and making arrests and Steve makes a stupid move. He charges at a cop advancing on a woman who fell and ripped up her knee, rips the riot shield from the cop’s hands with a fraction of his strength, giving the lady time to get up and away, and briefly debated punching him in the face.

Unfortunately, the guy was only doing his job and the woman was out or range, so Steve just body checks him with the shield and jumps back as the guy makes for his taser.

He would start to push back with the others, but he doesn’t want to get arrested again, not so soon, so he just starts helping people get away. Steve uses the shield to deflect rubber bullets as he retreats. He covers for the teenagers and the people who tripped or were pushed down while he escapes. With a lucky swat of the shield, the bullets bounce back and hit a few of the cops, making them fumble with their guns out of surprise, stunned. He keeps covering for the injured and trying to distract the cops so the people they’re trying to arrest and jump out of range and go.

Eventually, Steve realizes that he’ll be next, based on how they've identified him as the troublemaker, and he turns tail and runs, but he skids to a stop as he spots a black teen about his age get hit by a rubber bullet to the back and go down, looking a bit stunned. Steve rushes over and covers against more bullets.

“On your left,” Steve says in warning, so the kid knows where he’s coming from.

The boy looks up at him with wide eyes. He’s wearing a black Black Lives Matter shirt and a nice jacket, all put together like. Steve offers his hand and the boy takes it, pulling himself up.

“Come on,” the kid says, still grabbing his hand. “I know my way around, follow me!”

Steve does, they rush into an alley, jump over a fence, cross a street into another alley, and hide behind a dumpster, catching their breath. It’s still chaos out there, but it was dying down and they seem to be out of range of the cops now, which was nice.

“That was crazy, where the hell did you get that shield?” the kid asks.

“Stole it,” Steve replied shortly. “Think I’ll keep it. Hide it here and come back for it later.”

The other teenager laughs, shaking his head as Steve slides the riot shield behind the dumpster for later retrieval. The boy clears his throat and glances out of the alley. "Okay, coast is clear, follow me, I know a place to hide out."

Steve nodded and followed the other boy past a few buildings, down an alley, across a street, and then into a buiding flooded with sweet cool  AC. Steve glanced about and noticed a few things- a slection of adults in various states of exaustion, a few missing limbs or in wheelchairs. He noticed a receptionist, and a lot of familiar symbols and words.

"This is the VA in this town," the boy explained shortly. "They know me here. C'mon, into this room, it's empty until the group meeting at three."

He's right, there's nothign but empty chairs and the kid sits in one, sighing and relaxing back into it. Steve sits beside him and keeps lookign around, feelign a little out of place and slightly dazed.

"Sam Wilson," the boy suddenly offers his hand, one with a wristband, and Steve takes it, shaking.

“Steve. Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you too. Coulda gotten bad out there. The cops in this city are usually white and post ‘Blue Lives Matter’ bullshit. You see their Facebook?”

“Eugh,” Steve replies, scrunching his nose.

“You said it. So, uh, nice tats?” Sam puts a finger on the hand with the compass, looking impressed.

“Thanks, I did ‘em myself in juvie.”

“That explains a lot. I mean, I don’t wanna be rude, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Steve says. “I was in for assault. I punched a neo-Nazi, broke his nose, and he pressed charges.”

“Hey, nice!” Sam said, impressed. He then looked panicked and tried to backtrack. “I mean, not charges pressed, but punching Nazis.”

“Yeah, right? Nazis need a good punch. We had a whole fuckin’ war to prove it.”

Sam laughed, head tilting back and Steve wants to draw him suddenly. It was a strange urge, but the fella seems nice and he had a good face, nice and open, full of expression.

“I actually got more,” Steve said, shrugging off his jacket to show off the stars, the barbed wire, his title, and the Commandos sign on his arm. He tilts his head to show the rat there and pulls his collar down to show the numbers on his collarbone, but not the eagle, and not his shield. He flashes the anchor on his ankle and pulls off his shoes and socks to show off his space tattoos. He doesn’t show the ones that have space _in_ them, the stars on his knuckles that glitter and change in a way that makes him wary and nervous, under the glove.

“Nice, dude, these are cool.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies as he struggles to pull his boots on again.

“I don’t know if I’d get a tattoo but if I did it’d be in a vibrant color, red or something. It’s a little tricky on black skin, but it's definitely possible. I’d do it orange. Like a phoenix. I like birds.”

“Birds are cool, and that’s a good color combination,” Steve says. Color… he was having mixed feelings about color. His sight was fixed, he could see all the colors now, tell them apart, and his vision was just great now, but he felt really silly and stupid watching children's youtube videos about color identification. There weren’t a lot of ones directed toward adults learning the colors in a way that didn’t sound demeaning, but color theory videos were a close second.

They talked for hours, until that group meeting started shuffling in and they retreated to the lobby, buying drinks from the vending machines and sitting on the floor next to them. Before they actually left, they were sure to exchange emails. Sam had anxiously asked Steve to swing by his house, walk him home, and he had, because the walk was pleasant too. It had hardly been three hours before Steve got a message.

**_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_ **

**_Hey, yo, u wanna go for frozen yogurt tomorrow, my treat? My buddies have this summer daytime thing so only see them after like 6 and i want frozen yogurt after lunch im havin cravings man_ **

**_punkkid1918@****mail.com_ **

**_Hell yeah dude im in what time and where_ **

* * *

Sam and Steve became close friends pretty quickly, going places for the hell of it, relaxing in the park, throwing around a frisbee while speaking loudly to cover the distance as they discussed political issues and what kind of pizza was the best. They went to the mall and stuff, buying dollars worth of gumballs and hanging out in the food court. Steve also bought a few new patches from a Spencer’s. A pink one of hands in cuffs with the print ‘being bad ain’t easy’ on it, a stop sign, and a blue and white one with converse on it labeled ‘teenage feelings.’ He bought a studded belt and a leather spike choker necklace with a chain necklace with a lock and the anarchy symbol on it.

Steve gets a job at the Baskin Robbins for all of a week, but somehow the manager reveals that she found out about Steve being an juvie and part of the protest and he gets… fired? It was kinda just like being turned away, really.

“Baskin Robbins always finds out,” the manager had said seriously, tipping down her glasses. “Always.”

What concerns Steve the most is that she found out about him going to juvie in general. Aren't his records sealed? Or something? Miss Carter said she did that, so it was really strange. And she didn’t even mention the fact that that place literally no longer exists. The lady did support the BLM cause so she didn’t turn Steve in, rather congratulated him and told him to take his favorite ice cream, a nice big bowl of it, on his way out. Free of charge. Mint chocolate chip, yum.

Steve used his one ‘paycheck’ to buy hair dye for himself and a My Chemical Romance shirt. It was something he liked to do, dye his hair, and he was really feeling the light blue color. One of the reasons Bucky called him a punk is because that’s the fashion style that Steve likes. Black leather, dyed hair, leather boots, dark skinny jeans, and patches. That was always Steve. Now, though, he’s really growing into the title. Piercings, tattoos, jewelry. He’s got the background and disposition too.

Sam helped Steve dye his hair at Steve’s new foster house, Sam doing the combing and Steve explaining what it should look like and where he should brush. The hair on top of his head was longer than the sides and back, so that’s where he instructed Sam to brush blue dye into. The end result is epic electric blue, like a raspberry sucker. Matched his guitar.

At the park, Sam revealed that he was very interested in birds and could name just about any species he saw. He could mimic bird calls by whistling too. Sam made some complicated chirping sound up at the tree. A bird replied and Sam looked at Steve expectantly.

Steve licked his lips and puckered, blowing out and producing a sound that was more like a puff of lame air and then a gross wet sound when his tongue shift and got too close to his lips as he blew out. His tongue piercing also clacked against his teeth.

Sam laughed at him and Steve swatted at the offender repeatedly until he was surrendering and snickering. Steve, however, sketched the bird perfectly and upon showing it to Sam, watched the other boy make a face, drink water from his bottle covered in bird stickers, and them shoots a stream of water from between his teeth.

“Aw, gross!” Steve complains, laughing and putting his hands up to block the spray. “Stop, stop!”

When the sun gets to them and they get hot and sleepy, Steve puts his head on Sam’s stomach, puts an earbud in, and they enjoy the park while dozing, Steve mumbling along to the lyrics in his ear.

_“Don’t wanna be an American idiot! Don’t want a nation under the new media! And can you hear the sound of hysteria? The subliminal mind-fuck America! Welcome to our new kind of tension~ all across the alien nation~ where everything isn’t meant to be ok~ay. Television dreams of tomorrow~ we’re not the ones meant to follow~ for that enough to argue…!”_

It’s not the best song to doze too but it’s a good one and he can feel Sam chuckle.

* * *

Steve finally gets everything he needs to swing by Jersey and check out the base he thinks Earskine is at one dark night, when the fosters turned in a bit earlier than normal. He found someone to steal a car from, some pretentious shit who owned three sports cars and a hummer and liked to be mean to children at the park as he strolled through, all self important-like. The hummer was a very nice car, it had a good rumble and nice control, and it was jet black. Very nice, clean and smelled fresh from the dealer.

Steve, of course, wore gloves so his fingerprints weren’t everywhere, ones that he made, with a curved metal plate over the knuckles with some cushioning for him. They fit nicely, moved nicely, and packed a punch. They also covered his fingers, to let him steal and hotwire cars. Thank god for his team’s advice in hotwiring cars.

The drive was pretty boring, all in all, but sneaking out and stealing a car was pretty cool, and learning to drive on the go was pretty grand. As much as he learned watching YouTube videos and reading books on the basic, it was still fun.

When he turned down an old road, overgrown with weeds and with potholes the size of pool tables in the road, he felt hesitant. But all the information he pieced together marked this as a location, so he turned off all the lights and proceeded slowly.

He knew it was an old abandoned military base, one from World War Two, but when he parked in the trees and looked through the fencing as he put on his new gear, it really hit him that people used to train here, live here, fight here. It was like walking through a slice of history. He almost wishes he could be there, in that time period.

He’s already fighting Nazis, though, so it’s not like all that much has changed. Bit unfortunate.

He clips his star to his chest, ties the bandana around his face, puts the goggles on and hood up, checked his guard belt and all its contents as he put it on, before proceeding up over the fence and through the compound, just looking around for any clue.

He glances around, trying to figure out where to go, remembering the maps of the base he sa-

That building isn’t where it’s supposed to be. There’s something like a bunker curving up out of the dirt, overgrown with weeds. There was supposed to be a gap between two of the buildings, and a bunker like thing is there now. It sits there innocuously, yet tells Steve that people have been there and people have changed things. That was enough for him to stride over and pull the shield off his chest.

He slides it on, eyes the handle, which has no lock, but seems to be locked from the inside, and slams the shield the door precisely, to cut through the lock mechanism. That… worked better than expected, he thinks as he pulls the shield out and jiggles the door until it opens. Neat.

Steve shuts the door behind him. It’s super dark, darker than anything, really. There’s no natural light, no unnatural light, and he ends up pulling the flashlight out of his belt so he doesn’t faceplant into the ground. He tiptoes down some steps, keeping quiet, and into an old abandoned office space. It’s chocked full of dust, layered on everything, uncleaned for ages and ages, but as his flashlight sweeps over the ground, that uncleaned dust gives him a nice trail, a trail that looks used and used often.

He follows it, noting in surprise the SHIELD logo on the wall, an old outdated version, sure, but still SHIELD.

Ooh, that’s clever, he thinks. Using the abandoned base of the enemy as a cover. Whoever, or whatever organization that grabbed Erskine was very clever to take him here, where SHIELD would never look.

Steve keeps following the trail, he follows it into an office, past old desks and starting through some bookcases before it turns and stops. Steve pauses, examining the trail’s end, and here's a thin whistling sound, like air escaping. Putting his retracted shield back on his desk, he holds his hands out along the seams of the bookshelf, and feels air on his fingers.

Bracing himself, he puts his fingers into the slot and pulled, feeling the shelf move and give, shrieking loudly against the floor until he has just enough room to slip through. At the end of a short dimly lit hall, he finds stainless steel elevator doors. Neat.

Steve looks and finds a keypad. Not neat. Upon examination, the four number have been slightly worn off, and after two wrong guesses, he finally gets it right and the elevator opens up to him. Stepping inside, he considers the numbers, only three of them, and picks the last, because he might as well work from the bottom floor up.

He stands and waits, and it’s kind of boring, but he’s on edge at the same time, and when the elevator starts slowing at the first floor, not the third, he panics. Looks up, uses the guard rail to jump up and braces his arms and legs against the top of the walls, high above whoever is coming in. He saw it in a movie once. Men In Black. Might work.

He’s dismayed when no less than nine armored guys get into the elevator and hit the third floor again, but he stays dead silent. Turns out, that doesn’t matter all that much when one of them stretches, leaning back a bit, and spotting Steve. Steve swears, loudly, violently, and the chaos begins. He drops down and just starts fighting, hurting whatever he can, dodging cattle prods, punching heads and throats. Slamming one guy into another, punching as hard as he can, and Steve can lift trucks, do he knows damn well that it hurts. He did have the element of surprise working for him, and the only person who tried to shoot him shot his star, which richoced into another's shoulder.

Of course, Steve was prepared for a fight, he knew exactly what to go after, Miss Carter taught him where it really hurt to hit, and he read some pretty good advice in the Anarchist’s Cookbook from Erskine, but he had his super strength on his side. He hit hard, much harder than any man in the elevator, and when you get hit hard, you tend to stay down.

Before the elevator even opened up on the lowest level, they were all out of it or maybe dead. Steve couldn’t say for certain, but one definitely took a bullet to the shoulder, and punching someone in the throat was dangerous for a reason. He… should feel bad? And he does, a bit, but it feels like he should be more affected by the possibility that he’s standing in the middle of a group that might be half dead.

He glanced around outside, finding nothing or nobody in the hall, and a convenient storage closet across from the doors. He sticks his shield, fully formed, between the two doors trying to close, and dragged nine bodies out of the elevator and then inside the closet before locking it from the outside and breaking the handle off.

He takes his shield, clips the star to his chest, and keeps moving.

Steve started looking around, but there wasn’t a lot to look at. Mostly rooms that held lab supplies, storage closets, a room full of weapons or two, logos of a red skull with tentacles that seemed important. He didn’t see a lot of guards, and any he did he managed to sneak past, the cameras too, one way or another, but he still couldn’t find any trace of Erskine.

He had to be here, Steve hoped desperately. He heard voices from down the hall, and looking around, he found a vent on the floor. He ripped the cover off, went in feet first, and replaced the cover with moments to spare before three people started down the hall in heavy combat boots.

“I mean, with the Skull gone, I don’t think his bases are going to stay active all that long, or they’ll be absorbed into the other branches, but they say they’re going to close this one down and move it to the antic within three months.”

“Damn, I hate the cold,” one groaned.

“Who knows, you might get stationed at some other base,” the first offered. “Personally, I just think we should shoot the bastard and get it over with. Sure, maybe he had a better serum than Zola gave the Asset, but does that matter if he isn’t making it? If that one worked, don’t fix what isn’t broken, right? This base is the worst.”

“The air down here always smells,” the third agreed. “The empty base up top is kinda nice to walk through, though, you know?”

“Sure. Listen to bird song. Hour away from the city. Can’t get any god damn reception here. Face it, this place sucks.”

“What do you know,” the third dismissed. “You like cold canned ravioli.”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

They faded and hope bloomed in Steve’s chest. They were talking about Erskine. They had to be. Nobody else made any sense in that context, and he could find Erskine here if he just kept looking. He slipped out of the vent and kept on, peeking in doors, and through windows.

He made the mistake of wandering directly into the security room, thinking it was empty and hoping to use it to find where Erskine was located, and found one stunned man who stared at him before flailing a slapping a bright red button on the console.

An alarm sounded and on impulse Steve decked the man right off his swivel chair, flopping unconscious onto the floor.

Steve scanned over the cameras quickly. He looked at labs and more labs, a few halls, a few rooms, and- and a cell block! He spotted the view of one room with someone up against the door, trying to see out, who he couldn’t quite tell with the Doc, but was the only prisoner in the area, so he had to be. Steve scanned the level number- level two, of course- and after smashing the screens and controls, dumping a steaming coffee into the most important thing he could spot, made a break for it. There had to be some stairs, and if there weren’t any, they would still have that elevator.

Of course, the alarm meant subtly be damned, and he put his shield on his arm as he ran. He blocked and reflected bullets, he punched out anyone he could get to, he fought and fought and kept fighting and trying not to die that he managed to get to the elevators again with nobody after him. He peeled the doors open with his shield and finger tips and jumped to grab the thick cable that pulled the elevator up and down, climbing up until he found the next doors.

He managed to swing himself over, pull himself up, and open the doors as well. He was quickly greeted by another set of guards and the fight began again. He got shot twice but his bullet proof vest saved him because even though it hurt like a bitch, he could still fight and the pain receded as he healed. Felt like he maybe broke a rib, but that was fine. Happened before, will happen again. His goggles got knocked down to wrap around his neck and settle on his collar, but he kept fighting because he didn’t exactly have time to adjust them.

He punched and shot at people who came after him, the blue blast from the gun burning through bullet proof vests and leaving scorched red skin, but not killing them. It gave Steve the opportunity to punch them square in the sternum over the remaining burns, or jam his stun gun right into exposed ribs. He threw people at approaching groups, knocking them over like bowling pins, he kicked people down halls, he punched then wherever he could and if he couldn’t, he grabbed whatever he could and flipped them over his head to slam against the floor.

He thanked his lucky stars that Miss Carter taught him to fight like the devil, because he would be dead by now if he didn’t know how to kick ass.

He threw his shield at people, he smashed people into walls with the front of it, and, in one instance where he started getting overwhelmed, put it in star form and used that to stab and slash until he got enough space to work with.

When the guards were all unconscious and bleeding, Steve panting harshly as he started running through the halls, he clipped the shield to his back and went to find the cell block. He passed empty rooms and more labs, found meeting rooms and even a break room that he took a second to get a drink of water in, which felt stupid, considering, but he forgot to bring water on the drive, so…

He found the cell block after five minutes and went to cell four, where the prisoner was kept.

He found an armored man in the cell standing over a cowering figure that was down on his knees, hands behind his head, turned away from the door. Steve took a breath and knocked on the door, ducking down so the man wouldn’t be able to see him immediately. When it opened from the inside, and the big dude with an automatic gun in his hands spotted him, Steve drove his fist into his chest with all the strength he had. Which was a lot.

He was thrown back into the wall, slamming against it and falling to the ground in an ungainly heap, totally out of it. Erskine shrunk at the noise and then looked over, hesitating as he turned to see who was at the door. He stared for a moment before blinking. “Steven?” he asked, incredulously.

“Doc!” Steve cried and stumbled into him as he stood and turned, arm open. He hugged him back as hard as he was comfortable doing, sort up lifting the man up off his feet a little bit. It made Erskine wheeze, but he hugged back too, pulling Steve against his chest and mumbling in worried German as he put his chin on Steve’s head.

Erskine managed to get Steve to pull back a bit. “My boy, how did you- you have such strength! Did it- it worked, then? My serum, did it- did it help you? When everything happened, all I hoped for that serum is that it would protect you. Please tell me, has it?”

“Yeah, doc,” Steve managed. “Yeah, it has. Tasted like bleach. But I’m healthy now, and I can pick up cars, I can run and run and run for as long as I like, and it’s helped me _so much_. Thank you.”

“Tasted- you _drank_ it?”

“Well. Yeah,” Steve replied sheepishly. “It was that, or it went to the Red Skull. Johann Schmidt?”

“That bastard,” Erskine gripped, looking angry for a moment. Then he stared into the distance. “The serum wasn’t meant to be- it was supposed to be an _injection_. Perhaps… that’s why you had no physical change? You look the same as ever, but the serum was designed to achieve top physical form, and well…”

“I look like a stick-bug,” Steve joked.

“Yes,” Erskine allowed.

“Yeah, well-” Steve paused, and looked back, hearing voices. “We gotta go, Doc. Stay behind me and follow after, I’ll deal with the guards, you just stay back. Okay?”

He darted out of the room, putting his shield on his arm and letting bullets bounce off the the metal, pulling his gun out and exchanging fire as he crouch, protecting his legs. The blue energy gun really never seemed to run out of energy, which was good, and gave him enough edge to start moving forward, as they ducked back against the hall walls. As he got closer, he felt pain lance along his leg and it buckled. He made sure the shield was up and protective him as he fell, but as soon as he could push past the pain radiating from the oozing wound, he bolted, shield out and started fight hand to hand against the new guards. He raised hell, punching kicking, uppercuts, broken ribs, broken legs, broken arms, broken noses, broken teeth.

After a few minutes, they were all out, and Steve looked back for Erskine, who peeked out of the cell and Steve waved him on.

They made it back to the elevator with only two more scuffles. Erskine listened and stayed back, but when the shield rolled over to him once, he kicked it back so Steve could take it by the sides and slam it into someone's head like a frying pan.

When they got to the lift, Steve hit the elevator button and they waited, Steve panting, breathless, and Erskine looking at him in shock, in wonder.

“Did you- did you throw a man through a metal door?” Erskine asked softly.

“Yeah,” Steve puffed back, and glanced around. He spotted a man at the end of the hall loading a large gun, something that looked like a grenade launcher, and panicked. “Heads up!” he yelled, and shoved Erskine away and himself backward just as the blast hit the elevator doors. Steve scrambled up and threw his shield fast and hard down the hall, at the man who was just standing to get away, and the shield bounced off his chest.

Steve caught the shield and then threw it low, more like he was trying to cut the floor with the edge, and it bounced off the center, off the man’s chest again, off the ceiling, and back to Steve.

Steve looked back at Erskine, who was sitting up, still stunned, and glanced through the charred and broken doors at the elevator shaft. Steve blocked a series of bullets as the man yelled, charging at him with all guns blazing, and ducked low so his legs wouldn’t get caught in the spray. When the man was close enough, he turned the shield to a star, which clattered to the ground and grabbed the man’s leg. He brought the guy up and slammed him into the ground once, flipped him for the other direction to hit the ground again, and then tossed him into the elevator shaft.

They both watched him scream and hit the bottom before going quiet. Steve sucked in a breath between his teeth. “I kinda though the elevator was down there to be honest.”

“Yes, I- hmm,” Erskine said, adjusting his glasses. Steve grabbed his star from the floor and clipped it to his chest.

Erskine made a noise. “Ah, here we go.”

They got on and Steve hit the ground floor button. They waited in an awkward silence. “So,” Erskine started. “The star,” he questioned. “It’s a very curious object. How does it- appear and disappear like that.”

“Don’t know for sure,” Steve shrugged. “Something about a magic cube thing. Oh, uh. Azzano got leveled by an explosion. It, uh, you know my investigation? Turns out the Red Skull had a gun making factory, used the kids to make guns, other to test stuff on. After I drank the serum, I had my friend blow it up so we could all get outta there.”

“Oh,” Erskine said, shocked. “I- are you alright? After that?”

“Oh, y’know. Not bad, not bad. I mean,” Steve emotioned around. “Supersoldier. Kickin’ ass. Savin’ helpless scientists.”

“I’m not- I’m not helpless,” Erskine protested, and Steve grinned at him, even if he couldn’t see it.

“You’re a regular damsel in distress. Wait, doctor in distress.” Steve corrected and felt something sort off- in his chest. He coughed a few times, felt something rattling about, and felt something hard come up his throat and hit his teeth. He pulled down the bandana to spit it out and something metal clattered onto the floor, a small bent bullet. They both stared at it for a moment.

“Huh,” Steve said, pulling the mask back up. “Guess the vest doesn’t work all that well. I assumed getting shot with it would hurt, so I guess the broken rib I thought I got was actually a bullet hole.”

“Are you serious?” Erskine demanded.

The door opened again, letting them out. Steve hit the third button and jumped out, letting the elevator vanish back down before pulling open the doors.

“Hold this a moment?” Steve asked, and Erskine stuck his shoe against one of the doors, so they wouldn’t close. Steve stepped back, pulled his star off and made it a shield, and put it on his arm. He calculated it, and threw the shield as fast as possible, severing the cords and bouncing off the wall back to him. The elevator fell and screeched to a stop as automatic locks clamped it in place. It’d be hell to make their way back up and Steve could only think that trapping Nazi’s in a dirty bunker in Jersey was a good thing.

“Well,” Erskine said. “That’s done, then.”

“Yup,” Steve agreed. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Steve led Erskine through the dusty remains of the base and outside, where he smiled up at the starry night sky. “Oh, it’s been weeks,” he said wistfully.

“Not clear yet, Doc, c’mon. Don’t make me carry you. ‘Cause I will.”

Steve pulled him towards the fence, and he had to break the lock because he wasn’t about to watch a sixty two year old scientist try to climb a fence. Despite how funny it might be. Because that would have been very funny. Damn, he should have made the doc do it.

They got in the car, and Steve started driving them away.

“Do you even know how to drive?”

“Got this far, didn't I?”

“What about your leg?” Erskine asked.

“Huh?” Steve asked.

“You were bleeding,” Erskine insisted.

“Oh, right,” Steve said, and slowed enough to pull his leg up to see and hit the light on the roof. There was a very thin red line that was actively healing, almost fast enough to see, the blood already having stopped. “Quick healing. Nice, right? Real helpful.”

“Yes, that- that is remarkable,” Erskine agreed, amazed.

“Now, c’mon, I gotta get back to the house, and I gotta drop you off somewhere safe.”

“Oh- oh right! Yes, that- yes. Um. I assume you also don’t want anybody knowing about the serum, or how you saved me?”

“Yuh-huh,” Steve agreed. “But I know where a SHIELD base is around here, so I’ll drop you there.”

But Steve was also starving, like, really, really hungry, so he kept an eye on the signs on the side of the road, and when he spotted a food joint, he subtly made his way to the restaurant, which happened to be none other than a 24/7 McDonald's. “Uh, hope you don’t mind,” Steve said awkwardly, as he pulled off his mask and pulled out his wallet.

“Oh, not at all. Can I get some tea? I don’t think my stomach is up for much else.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Steve agreed, and pulled into the drive-thru. He ordered ten double cheese burger meals, but only two large sodas, and got Erskine his tea.

Steve parked in the lot and since he didn’t have enough room for all those meals, he climbed into the back to use the seats as room, and and started scarfing down all that food, burgers vanishing in ravenous bites, fries disappearing, and soda washing it all down. Erskine transferred to the back as well, to join him.

Erskine watched him, mildly drinking his tea. “So, you have been experiencing a higher metabolism, then?”

“Huh?” Steve said around a mouthful of burger.

“Your food consumption, and your recovery speed,” Erskine elaborated.

“I’m always hungry,” Steve said. “I eat a lot, all the time, snacks and everything. And I heal super fast too. I told you, I’m healthy. I have color vision, my vision’s probably 20/20 or better. My scoliosis is gone, my asthma is gone, my heart is great. Did a check, my resting heart rate is about 20-25 range, can’t tell exactly. No arrhythmia, no palpitations, no nothing. I just kept my stethoscope on my chest for like, twenty minutes, listening. My stomach is great, no more stomach ulcers. I mean, didn’t have much problem after getting meds, and stuff. Still some, but not as much, but now I don’t have to take anything. Uh, My feet aren’t flat, my hearing is perfect, I don’t need the hearing aid any more, think my anemia is gone, my trick join doesn’t pop out, I haven’t gotten sick since I drank the stuff, um.

“My joints don’t ache anymore. No more general aches and pain, really. That’s just the health stuff. I can lift cars, deadlift, that is. And I can run fast, did a mile in just over a minute, and my reflexes are something else. It’s like- it’s like I _see_ faster. And- there’s this thing, I just, targets, angles, spacial awareness, fighting, figuring things out, it all comes easier. My memory is better, I always had a photographic memory, but now it’s like I can relive what happened in my head. I learn fast too, like, with the guitar you got me. I’m already pretty advanced, and I’ve only had it a few weeks. Got a lot of energy, barely have to sleep to feel good, been trying to run with my friend, but he’s slow in comparison. He jogs, but I wanna _run_.”

“That’s… that’s all remarkable,” Erskine said, awed. “My serum is healing what can’t be healed. Asthma has no cure, it has treatment, anemia has no cure, only treatment. Scoliosis as well. You healed a bullet to the lung like it was nothing and spit the bullet out.”

“I mean, I kinda ignored the tightness for a bit but it faded. Thought it was just muscle pain or something. Maybe broke a rib.”

“I quite suspect that if you broke something, if would snap itself back into place.”

“That would be cool,” Steve said.

“I suppose it would even be possible to regrow limbs, but I couldn’t be certain of that.”

Steve paused before he ate a mouthful of fries, pulling back, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. _Bucky_ burned into his mind at that last bit and his mind stuttered over the thing Erskine spoke of, the healing, how amazed and calculating he sounded. He sounded like he wanted to repeat the experiment. “Uh. I um… Remember… remember when your serum got stolen?”

“Of course, it was a terrible day,” Erskine said honestly, sounding pained and saddened. “So many innocent dead, the research taken, by who knows and for what purpose, nobody knew. It was just one tragedy after another. I really- I regret I had any part in anything that had anyone hurt, especially the guards. Truly, they were nice people, they protected us, and they died for someone else's greed.”

“Doc, my friend,” Steve said, and his chest hurt. “They gave it to him. The people who killed those guards, and the person they worked for, they gave it to Bucky.”

Erskine blinked, trying to piece what Steve was saying together.

“They cut him open, put something in his head, something to control him, wired him up so all they have to do is say trigger words to him and he’s not in control anymore, healed him with your accelerant. He gets migranes, bad ones, because of it. And they gave him the serum too, to make him stronger. He says- he says it hurt, that it made him have a seizure. Says he thought he was on fire, that he wanted to die. Says he still wants to. They make him do things, make him hurt people, make him kill people. And they hurt him so bad, Doc, there are experiments, missions, training. They’re plating his bones with metal while he’s awake to see it,” Steve says, and he’s aware that his eyes are burning. “He showed me the scars, and they’re bad. He doesn’t heal like I do. He heals normal, just faster.

“You can’t keep doing this. You can’t make that stuff again, any of it. As much as you don’t want to hurt people, it’s hurting Bucky, and it’s not just him. Even though it helped me, probably saved my life, it hurt me too. It put me in danger just to be around you, I thought I might get killed for that stuff. I hurt people, maybe killed people, and I never wanted to kill anyone, you know that. If you keep this up, it’s only going to get worse, there will be more super soldiers, more hurt people, people fighting over it, people trying to recreate it, people killing for it. This thing needs to end with me, Doc. Promise me that.”

Erskine looked broken, he had a hand over his heart, he looked upset from hearing all of that, and torn. “I’m sorry,” Erskine said at last. “I never meant- I just wanted to make the world a better place, but I see that this wasn’t the right way to do it. This- Since this started, it’s had nothing but- struggle, and pain, for everybody involved. And I never wanted that. I’m done, Steven. I promise. I’ll- retire, I’m done.”

“Okay,” Steve breathed. “Thank you.”

“Come here,” Erskine said, and Steve scooted over so the man could hug him. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Steve said into his shoulder. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Like I said, I’m retired.”

They stayed that way for a minute. “I miss you,” Steve whispered.

“I miss you too,” Erskine replied. “My house feels emptier. I even miss your blaringly loud music.”

“You could get a new foster kid.”

“No I couldn’t,” Erskine disagreed. “I mean, besides being targeted by a terrorist organization, it’s not the same without you. No other child is going to learn German for me, or actually enjoy my presence, or steal food to hide it away, or draw pictures of me, or fight for what’s right the way you do. Or, you know, break into a highly secure Nazi organization to rescue me.”

“I am pretty cool,” Steve joked.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Erskine replied.

Steve finished his food and drove Erskine to the base, where he quite literally drove up the front steps to swing right in front of the doors. Erskine was swearing excessively about it, but when he stumbled out of the car towards a series of guards that came out in response to a car doing strange shit out front, they brought him inside.

Steve spotted a glimpse of Miss Carter in the lobby in a nice suit-dress and her fancy hair, she must be stationed there for a period of time, and she walk up to the doctor with ease, clearly addressing Erskine, based on what he could see. Steve revved the engine and went back down the steps, back towards home. Luckily, nobody tailed him, but just to be sure, he took a roundabout route.

He got back to the house at six in the morning, and had to deal with his foster parents yelling at him for sneaking out to get into trouble. Steve, wearing a bullet proof vest under his hoodie, his belt, shield, and all his stuff in his backpack, could only muster up resentment in his chest and an eye roll in response.

What did they know?

* * *

Sam showed Steve a local baseball diamond that was in use during the season for local teams but was mostly abandoned otherwise. They played occasionally and spent a lot of time searching for the ball. Steve kept accidentally hitting the ball just a tad too hard. Sam didn’t seem to notice anything, though.

“Baseball isn’t actually my sport,” Sam commented as they climbed the far fence in search of the missing ball.

“Yeah?” Steve inquired, still looking around. The ball had vanished into the trees, so it should be around here somewhere...

“Yeah, no, I actually did track for a while.”

“Nice,” Steve offered. Sometimes it feels like I’d run forever if I could.”

“Yeah,” Sam says wistfully. “When I run, it feels like I’m flying.”

Steve could imagine it clearly, Sam’s fast feet flying along the ground as he bolted down roads, arms outstretched as the wind hit his wings and feathers flared… The image made him want to grab his sketchbook. Desperately. Soon.

Sam cleared his throat. “So, why don’t you have a phone?”

“Too expensive. My iPod gets internet so it ain’t necessary, you know?”

Sam shrugged. “Makes sense. My last foster parents got me mine. I’m off the plan, but I got this app.”

“I could, I guess. The money I have is from tattooing people at juvie,” Steve explained. “I’m not rich, but I’ve got, like, almost a five hundred dollars.” He used quite a bit getting supplies ready, his uniform.

“Damn,” Sam whistles. “Wish I had that much money.”

Steve shrugs and finds the baseball stuck up in a tree, wedged between branches. He and Sam make eye contact. “Race you,” Steve says and starts scrambling up, his hands getting dirty as little bits of tree bark brake off onto his hands, Sam shouting protests and hot on his heels. Steve gets the ball first and they sit in the tree for a while, the mitt and bat below them.

They mostly look around, pointing out landmarks, and Sam really seems to enjoy the wind and height. Steve really wants to draw him.

But then Sam peers through the leaves and frowns, pointing. “Hey, look-” he says and Steve tracks his finger.

“I see it,” Steve agrees, already on his way down.

It was a fight, a couple of big kids pushing around another and tossing a book back and forth over his head as they laugh and rough him up. It’s hardly a fair fight and the kid wasn’t putting up much of a fight. It isn’t that he doesn’t seem able to take him, but whenever his fists clench, he stops himself. He clearly doesn’t want to make it a fight, but it’s already halfway there.

Steve and Sam get to the area as quick as possible. “Hey, assholes!” Steve shouts, putting up his fists as Sam holds the bat, ready for action. “Pick on someone your own size or the next thing you’ll be seein’ is stars!”

The bullies took a look at furious teens, looked at each other, and bolted, but not before shoving the kid down and slam-dunking his book into a nearby trash can. The boy groaned and sat up, rubbing his back. “Ow,” he said. “Jackasses.”

Sam laughed. “That’s one word for ‘em. Need a hand?”

“Sure, thanks.” Sam held out his hand and helped the teen back up to his feet. He winced and pulled at the hem of his shirt to see the damage to his side, a bit of a scrape, but nothing too urgent, especially since the shirt saved him. “I’ll be feeling that later.”

“Probably, but not too bad if you ice it a bit. Pro’lly just bruise some. My name’s Steve,” he offered. “And that’s Sam.”

“Rhodey, or James, but my friends call me Rhodey. Nice to meet you,” he offered. “You’ve got great timing.”

“Thanks, we just saw what was happening a bit away and had to come help,” Sam explained and wandered over to the trashcan to pull out the book, a textbook, that now had a mysterious orange stain on the side of the pages. He held it out to Rhodey with a grimace.

Rhodey sighed and took it. “Dammit. This isn’t even my book. It’s my friend’s, I was borrowing it.”

“Can we help? I dunno how to clean books up, but…” Steve offered.

“Nah, it’ll be fine. Tony’ll understand. Tony’s my best friend,” he added. “His shit is my shit and vice versa. So really, _our_ book smells like rotten mango. That’s a fate we’ll both have to deal with.”

“Advanced engineering?” Sam asks, leaning forward to read the title. “Sweet.”

“You a genius type?” Steve asks, politely, not accusatory. It was kind of neat. Steve didn’t know any geniuses. Sam was a smart fella, and Steve wasn’t a complete idiot, but they both knew their own limits academically.

“Yeah. But it’s not like that’s it. I know I’m smart, but I’m not a dick about it,” Rhodey shrugged awkwardly. “It’s not… something that’s usually relevant.”

Steve and Sam nodded in understanding. “Hey, well, if you ever need a hand, you can message me,” Sam offered, and pulled a crumpled receipt out of his pocket. Steve handed him a sharpie marker and Sam scribbled his email down, handing the paper to Rhodey. “It’d be cool to hang out.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Rhodey allowed hesitantly. “I just got placed here, might be good to have another friend.”

“Shit, you’re a foster kid too?” Sam asked. “Are we like magnets?” Sam questioned, looking exasperated. “Steve, we’re magnets.”

“Well, birds of a feather,” Steve offers, circling his finger while pointing upwards. “Flock together.”

“The end of that is ‘until the cat comes,’” Rhodey pointed out.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” Steve offers with more certainty because he knew the whole quote on that one.

Rhodey gets this fond look on his face and he glances away. “Ain’t that right.” Steve gets the feeling that he’s thinking about this Tony fella. That’s adorable. Steve bets ten dollars that they have matching pajamas.

“Wait a second, did you make a pun off your knuckle tattoos!?” Sam realizes and Steve cackles so hard his stomach hurts because he totally did.

* * *

Steve starts school with no grand affair. He goes to homeroom and then first period, tired because he stayed up late sketching Sam in flight, with brilliant wide wings, the sun above, a certain amount of power displayed in the motion. He sees Rhodey in homeroom, but he’s on the other side of class and Steve barely gets to wave before the teacher is demanding their attention and calling role.

He’s got history for first period. AP world history, he thinks, but he can’t remember. He just knows it’s history so he’ll probably like the class. He’s always been good at history. It’s much easier than math which has rules and certain order to certain things. History is a date, a place, an event, and people. They all correlate. It’s a nice neat line.

He looks at the seating chart on the projector screen and yawns, shuffling to his spot.

Just before he gets there, he spots something familiar.

“Bucky?!” he says it much louder than he wanted to but is rewarded with long hair whipping around as Bucky looked his way. That face is more familiar than his own, the presence of dark bags under his eyes doesn’t deter from that at all.

“Steve!” Bucky shouts and is out of his seat, accidentally almost tackling Steve into a desk, making it and the one beside it clatter over. Bucky picks Steve up in a crushing hug, with just his one arm, that’s impressive, and it forces the air out of Steve’s lungs, making him struggle as his back pops several times. The noise seemed to startle Bucky into putting Steve down, letting Steve lean on him to gasp for air. That was… impressive. Steve was enhanced, he knew this, so that was really damn impressive.

“Think you just cured my fuckin’ scoliosis,” Steve wheezes and Bucky flushes as he grins and laughs covering his mouth with his hand. “Snap-crackle-popped my spine back inta’ place.”

The teacher shouts at them to get to their assigned seats.

“I’m sittin’ next to him,” Steve says firmly, grabbing Bucky tight. “This is my best pal and I haven’t seen him since I went into foster care.”

The teacher glares and then sighs. “Fine, but if you get loud or talk excessively, I will be separating you two,” she says, pointing threateningly.

They sit so close that their chairs are tangled together and their legs and feet tangle as they go over the syllabus and stuff. Bucky puts his arm over Steve’s shoulders and lets Steve fill out the information for him, mumbling the answers as Steve scribbles it down. It gave Steve Bucky’s address, though he couldn’t pinpoint where in town that was. He filed the information away for later use.

Bucky spots the blank ink on Steve’s ankle and pulls his foot over to see, pushing up his pant leg a bit to get a better view of the anchor. “You-” Bucky floundered, rubbing his thumb over the star and the JBB.

“Yeah.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Bucky says angrily, but the way he traces it tenderly says otherwise.

They compare schedules and find that they have another class together after lunch, English. Steve goes through the day, eating D lunch, and then meeting Bucky in their only other class together.

“Hey,” Bucky says, coming up to him with his phone in hand, looking a little nervous and breathless. “I texted my friends and we’re going to this skatepark thing after school, you wanna come?”

“Hey, yeah,” Steve replied. “Totally. But I don’t have a skateboard or anything.”

Bucky waved his hand. “Nat is bringing a guy who might not know how to and Sam has this blind guy. I mean, he might be able to, don’t wanna be ableist, but again, I dunno. Either way, you won’t be alone, I guess.”

Steve wonders if ‘Sam’ is his Sam, but decides it doesn’t matter. If it is, cool and _why didn’t Sam tell him_ , if it isn’t he’ll know two Sams. “Alright, yeah then. I mean, it’s the first day, we won’t have any homework or anything, right?”

“Yeah.”

School finally lets out and they start walking. Bucky sends his friends a quick text and then they start talking about things they didn’t get to fill each other in about. Bucky tells him the truth about the Red Room and how he met Nat and Steve tell him about juvie and the Commandos. After hesitating, he goes on to explain what exactly happened at juvie, and the serum, and the shield.

Bucky stopped to stare at him. “What?” he finally asks.

“Well, I’m-”

“You’re- you're cured? You don’t get- don’t get sick no more? Your-” Bucky reaches out to grab Steve’s face, gently, of course, and pinpoints the hearing aid, which he plucks out and holds to his ear.

“Hey, grabby,” Steve huffs.

“It’s not on,” Bucky concludes in surprise. “Jesus Christ.”

Steve snatches it back and almost instantly, Bucky is pressing a pair of fingers to Steve’s neck, clearly counting his heartbeats. “It’s so slow,” he marvels. “And steady.”

“Bucky-”

Bucky hugs him again, and Steve does back out of surprise, but this time Bucky’s hand goes up the back of his shirt, tracing the straightness in his spine and his breath hitches as he listens to Steve breathe.

“Sorry,” he manages, voice sounding wobbly. “I was- I was scared it- that maybe one day you would- it would be too much? After all you went through, you were- you were really fucked up, medically. You used to say you didn’t expect to make it to twenty, so fuck the consequences, but I don’t know if I could live without you anymore.”

Steve hugs him back tighter at that. “I’m not plannin’ on goin’ anywhere. Till the end of the line, right?”

“Thought we might be on a short rail line,” Bucky replied quietly.

“Not anymore, you hear? You got me for good. I’m as healthy as a horse. Better, even.” Steve pulls back and puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, his left one. “Neither of us are goin’ anywhere, you get me? I’m not dying any time soon, and you bet your ass you’re not goin’ anywhere either. We’ll get through this. However long it takes, we’ll figure it out.”

Bucky nods, and Steve can see tears building in his eyes.

“It’s just- so hard,” Bucky manages. “It hurts. Everything does.”

“I know, I know,” Steve agrees. “But you’re stronger than you think. You already deal with all this bullshit just by yourself, but now you have friends all over, and we want to help you, you know that. We’ll help how we can.”

Bucky sniffs, wipes his face off, and nods. He clears his throat. “We should keep goin’,” he says. “We’re almost there.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Lets go.”

They take a detour so Bucky can get his board from this huge building, like, rich-guy mansion status. Bucky’s foster house is this tall dark imposing office-looking building, with formal appearance and a generally unsettling ‘prison’ feel. And Steve knows prison. Steve doesn’t like it. And he knows the horrors going on in there and he hates it even more.

They finally leave and head to Bucky’s skate park as Bucky describes his first time back on a board, how Natasha made him do down the tallest ramp they have and how the board shot out from under his feet. The park is in the back of this skate shop place and a couple people are already there, talking and waving Bucky over.

Bucky smiled and tugged Steve along to start introductions. “Steve, this is Sam, Natasha, and Sam’s buddy… Matt, right?”

“Yeah,” Matt confirmed. He was a solid looking teenager with dark glasses and a sturdy posture. He held a cane in hand and was dressed simply in converse, sweatpants, and a black shirt. Natasha was a tall girl with red hair who had a relaxed posture and was holding a skateboard. She could definitely bench press him and Steve liked her already.

“Nice to meet you, Matt,” Steve offers.

“And I already know your dumb ass,” Sam teases Steve, kicking at his shin, which hurts, but Steve allows it. “How you been doin’?”

“Just swell, you?”

“Good, actually, I’ve got cool classes,” Sam replied. “Hey, there’s a counter-protest setting up to face off against a Pro-Life protest on a Planned Parenthood if you want to steal a riot shield again,” he added, grinning mischievously. Steve rolled his eyes.

“What?” Natasha asked almost tonelessly.

“We met at a protest,” Sam explained. “He stole a riot shield, threw tear gas back at the cops, and hit a cop.”

“What is the matter with you?” Bucky said, aghast, and Steve laughed.

Natasha smiled, amused. “I like you,” she said to Steve. “Now quick, what’s your opinion of blueberries?”

“Great snack,” Steve replied, barely thinking about it beyond what he likes about the fruit. “Great with chocolate. Pie ain’t half bad.”

“I love him,” Natasha reported to Bucky. “He’s my friend now.”

“Sounds good. Hey, uh,” Steve thought about his words here. “Thanks for keepin’ an eye on Buck for me. Means the world.”

Natasha nodded. “Somebody has to.”

“Ay, somebody outta keep an eye on you two asshole,” Bucky protests. “Stealin’ a fuckin riot shield, you maniac.”

Steve snorted and chuckled, then looking at Matt, who had been otherwise quiet as he listened. “So, hey, Matt, do you skate or...?”

“No,” Matt replied. “But, Natasha told me that we have a mutual in the rafters and I’ll join him in a minute.”

Steve looked up and grimaced. There was a blonde up there peering at them. The ceiling was… pretty up there. “I see him-” Natasha looked up too and waved at the boy.

“I don’t,” Matt said automatically and grinned when everybody looked at him in dumbfounded silence. He just made a blind joke, Steve realized, impressed. He has a feeling that it’ll get old soon, but that was a pretty solid deadpan.

“You’re fun,” Natasha said. “I’ll keep you.”

Steve continued. “But I’m afraid of heights. Gotta leave that to you, but good luck with that, yeah?”

Matt nodded and looked up (well, sort of). “Clint, how do I get up there?”

“Go around the edge, to the back right corner, there’s a ladder up the ramp and you can climb into the rafters, a voice replied, carrying clearly.

Matt nodded and flicked open his cane, Sam quietly direct him to the wall before he followed it along and vanished. Steve looked up to follow his movements once he came into view on top of the ramp again.

Natasha looked back at the group. “I figured we’d chill here for about forty minutes and then head to the park.”

Steve checked his watch and sighed. “I gotta be back by six. Probably why we never met. Sam says you have whatever until then and that’s my ‘be home’ time.”

“Well, that still leaves us plenty of time,” Natasha assured him. “Come on, boys, let's go shred it.”

They did, for a while, or at least, Steve watched and talked when Bucky, Sam, or Natasha was close. It was cool to see them do fancy tricks and it made Steve want to learn. He couldn’t decide on between the skateboard or scooter though. Maybe… maybe one of those BMX bikes? He could see other people around doing fancy tricks, and he always loved biking around with Bucky when they lived in Brooklyn. And he loved motorcycles, liked the idea of that level of control. Scooters felt too flimsy and light, skateboards were something you control with your own motion, not your own hands, so maybe he’d look into the bikes.

“You know,” Steve says next time Sam rolls over, Natasha on his heels. “We should have invited Rhodey.”

Sam smacks his forehead. “Shit, yeah.”

“Who?” Natasha asks, wiping sweat off her brow, unaffected by the presence of it, somehow. She doesn’t even look winded.

“Rhodey is this guy I met during the summer with Steve. He had some assholes fucking with him and we stepped in,” Sam explained.

“But Rhodey would have brought his friend,” Steve added, pointing it out.

Sam thought hard. “Tony?”

“Yeah,” Steve confirmed.

They herded everyone to the park after a while and relaxed. Feeling lazy, they all sat on the grass under a tree and talked about random things. School, their foster families, interests and topics and jokes.

Bucky and Steve were draped over each other, soaking up each other presence. They talk about random things, like how they met or who knew who how. Matt seemed cool. He wants to be a lawyer and likes moral justice just as much as Steve does. Clint is pretty cool too. He used to be in the circus before CPS got him. A marksman apparently. Good with a bow an arrow. Also a writer. He was really passionate about that, and Steve liked how much he loved what he did.

Sam and Matt leave first, having to get Matt home earlier so his foster’s don’t freak. A bit after they disappear, Steve and Bucky follow their example so Steve doesn’t get in trouble, bidding Nat and Clint a goodbye.

They become fast and close friends terrifyingly quickly, like sticky glue and gorilla tape combined. When Natasha steals his Doritos one day he doesn’t get the urge to growl at her and tear it away, he feels amused, not territorial. Clint and Steve bond over books. Clint let Steve read a few pages from this fantasy thing he was working on with modern mythical creatures. It was really cool and he tells Clint so. Steve offered to illustrate and Clint beams.

Natasha and he bond over Bucky, music, and just being friends. Sam tells Steve that Natasha never really had friends, so having even a good acquaintance or an ally is somewhat of a new thing to Natasha. He can see it sometimes, in the way she hovers protectively occasionally or fails to recognize levels of personal space around the people she calls her friends, how she doesn’t emote, but feels and shows that she feels the way she ca. He doesn’t mind the closeness at all. She’s warm and a good hugger, actually.

Matt is pretty awesome. He’s a boxer, smart and capable. He makes blind jokes all the time, and Steve reads the Hobbit to him when they’re at the skatepark with the others. He seems, however, to be incapable of fear. He’s sure and certain of everything, even his safety in otherwise precarious situations. Climbing trees, doing parkour with Clint, apparently, and even trying to spar with Nat.

A week or two in, Sam managed to invite Rhodey to the local shawarma place after school. Rhodey brings two friends, his Tony and this guy named Bruce. Tony owns the place as soon as he walks in but Bruce is practically invisible up until he takes up a chair and shyly introduces himself. Tony offers Natasha some chocolate covered blueberries and based on Bucky and Sam’s reactions, that was a very good move.

The additional three boys add a missing piece they didn’t know was gone until it was filled. Bruce provided the calm soft comforting presence they needed, the amused smile that rounded out a joke instead of making it devolve into insane laughter. Tony was made of quick quips loud confidence, had enough dick jokes to make a sailor blush, and was a chatterbox. If everyone was feeling lazy, Tony could talk enough for the eight of them while they at least listened in interest, too tired or sleepy to add anything to the one man conversation, but happy to be a passive part of it.

Rhodey related with Steve a bit, both lost family in the military. They both wear their parents' dog tags, close to their heart. Rhodey’s lost was a lot more recent but that loss hurts no matter when it happened. Rhodey was funny too, and just as sarcastic as Tony. Big fan of jets. Rhodey was the same thing to Tony that Bucky was to Steve, it was easy to see it.

For the first time in a while, Steve felt part of something, something permanent.

And by God, he’d hang onto it with all he’s got.

* * *

 


	3. No one's there when your dreams at night get creepy...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, let’s rehash,” Rhodey said, deadly calm. “About twenty minutes ago, my watch went nuts with your vitals, spiking all over the place after over a month of regular activity. I track your location via the connection and find that you’re in the middle of fucking Afghanistan, going supersonic speeds in a legal no-fly zone. Next, I hack into the military defense systems and find there’s something going on and I watch a bit of interesting footage of a man in a red and gold suit clinging to the stomach of an F-22.”
> 
> “Um,” Tony says, nervously. “What’s this got to do with me?”
> 
> “I RECOGNIZE YOUR ASS IN SPANDEX, TONY, DON’T FUCKING PLAY STUPID, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!?” Rhodey shouted at him over the call. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, ARE YOU FUCKING MENTAL?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, lol, so you can tell that I made some serious changes to the main story (Teen Vig) based off of this alone. To put it simply: Tony and Rhodey become Iron Man and War Machine before the events of Teen Vig. That's just how it is. But I hope you all enjoy the difference anyway! I think it makes for an interesting story!

* * *

 

After coming back to America, Tony spent a week in the hospital while medical professionals fussed around him and dodged flying fists when Tony fought off anyone trying to lay so much as a finger on his chest. It hurt all the time and their constant examinations grated on his nerves, literally and figuratively. He ripped maybe six stitches punching this one guy in the face after he had physically pulled down the hospital gown to closely examine the device in Tony’s chest. Tony screamed that he had _no consent to touch him, thank you very much_ and decked him exactly like how Rhodey taught him. It made his chest hurt worse, messed his shoulder up again, and sprained his wrist. The doctor had a broken nose, a black eye, a mild concussion, and a brief, but important, lesson about the repercussions of not getting the consent of a patient.

On the fourth day back in America, a lawyer visited to read Howard Stark’s will to Tony, telling him that he would be able to receive his dad’s fortune, property, etc. when he turned eighteen and could take over the company when he turned twenty-one, unless something happened to Obadiah before then, as he was selected to care for the company until Tony reached that age.

On the fifth day, Obadiah himself stopped by to say that he’d love to take Tony in, but just wasn’t ‘parenting material.’ He gave Tony a fake smile, reassured him that he’d take care of the company, said some bullshit about how his father will be missed and Obie would take care of a memorial and all that, and ruffled his hair as Tony as he glanced down at the blue glow coming from Tony’s chest. Tony clutched his hands over his arc-reactor uneasily because knew there was something wrong with Obie and his glance. He’s the kind of white asshole that benefits off other people's work and then claims it as his own. There was something that didn’t sit right with Tony about Obi.

On the sixth day, some FBI or CIA assholes came to question him. Later, after those two had left,  some SHIELD agent. Tony didn’t tell her anything other than what he told the feds. He kept it simple and brief; he and his dad were captured, ordered to make weapons, tortured until Howard agreed, Howard was eventually killed, and Tony conspired with another captive to escape.

He didn’t say a word about the suit and none of them knew about the arc-reactor, because he kept it covered in bandages so the glow didn’t show. Tony made sure the suit could never be activated again before he started walking. Then he just wandered over the miles and miles of burnings sand, wondering if he was going to die out under the sun after escaping hell on earth. Just as he was about to seriously have a mental breakdown or die of heat stroke, his vision starting to go grey, heat in his head, weakness in his legs, he heard the sound of helicopters coming his way and thought he was starting to hallucinate.

He is fairly certain he was crying on the way back, laying on the medical cot under a shock blanket, much to the concern of the army dudes, and was definitely dehydrated and maybe suffering from some mild malnutrition but he wasn’t about to really give a shit about appearances then.

After getting released from the hospital, CPS took Tony home to Stark Mansion and let him pack one large suitcase (because Tony had standards, okay? And he was very materialistic, to a degree. Tony liked his things, mainly his bots, his tech, and his clothes), one duffel bag, and one backpack of stuff to take with him to his foster home.

She followed him in and watched him as he threw his favorite clothing into his bag, crop tops, pants, skirts, leggings, socks, underpants, shirts, a hat or two, sweaters, shorts, a pair of boots and his favorite shoes (black converse), and some sunglasses. He shoved his mother’s jewelry box in his duffel bag before adding his dust covered computer and it’s charger. He downloaded Dum-E onto a smaller model he had and used when he was at MIT, installed JARVIS into the Jarvis Box, his traveling case, grabbed his phone and all the chargers he needed, packed his toolkits, stuffed some parts into his duffle, grabbed a few of his favorite textbooks, his wallet with pictures of his family- of Jarvis and his mom- and put his sunglasses on his face.

After rummaging in a pile of laundry for a minute, he found his biggest hoodie and pulled it on, letting the sleeve dangle past his wrists, and then pulled the hood up. It was Rhodey’s, really, but the second he was swimming in the taller boy’s hoodie, Tony felt so much safer. The ache around his arc-reactor eased and Tony realized that some of the pain he was feeling was actually just longing for his best friend. The rush of emotion made him feel like his heart was in his throat, but he refused to start crying in front of the lady watching him pack his life up into a bunch of bags.

He closed his eyes, let out a quick breath, and continued zipping his stuff up.

He felt kind of resigned on the trip, tired, wanting to go home and feeling miserable. “So…” Tony said after an hour and a half of silence. “Nobody is gonna try to adopt me to get my money, right?” Tony asked. “It’s a valid concern. I’ve had people pretend to be my friends to get the latest Stark Tech.”

“To my knowledge, no, but you have my card to call if something ever concerns you,” she said. “Also you’d need to consent to an adoption, so…” She trailed off and tapped at the leather of the steering wheel with her fingers, manicured and shiny with well painted on gloss.

Tony nodded and looked out the window, resting his head on the palm of his hand. Tony had already put her number in his phone. She seemed decent enough to actually help instead of trying to get in his good graces for the financial benefit of it.

“So… how are you handling things?” she asked after a pause.

Tony shrugged. “I’m not. I’ve been back a week and I‘ve punched a doctor.”

She made a face, tilted her head in agreement and said, “I’ve heard worse.”

“Oh? Do tell.” He turned to face her in interest, crossing his legs and arms, resting his head on the palm of his hand.

“I heard a boy stabbed an officer with an arrow while trying to get away down in the Rust Belt.”

Tony hissed in sympathy. “Ouch.”

“Can’t tell you anything else,” she said, putting up a hand and tilting her head. “But still. You only punched the doctor.”

“I guess I feel a little better,” Tony drawled. “But I wasn’t really feeling bad in the first place. I said very clearly not to touch me and he did anyway.” Tony was well versed on the terms of consent. Did a lot of research into it, actually.

“You were in the right,” she agreed, nodding. “But please don’t punch anybody else.”

“Well,” Tony said wryly, making a small notion with his fingers. “We’ll see.”

After a bit, Tony got out his phone and read through his missed texts. A lot were from Rhodey… All of them were from Rhodey. All panicky. A few were pleading. Some were even clearly from Butterfinger and U. Tony bit his lip and clicked the reply button.

_Milliondollerbaby: I’m wearing your hoodie._

The reply came just a few moments later.

_Rocketman: I missed you too, so much._

Tony let out a breath, feeling relief and warmth seep into his bones, all his focus on Rhodey’s words. It was so nice to hear from him, inasmuch as possible at the moment. Rhodey was off wherever he was waiting for Tony’s reply, probably so relieved to hear from Tony as well.

_Milliondollerbaby: love you too, honey lumps_

_Rocketman: you okay? heard you were put in a hospital_

_Milliondollerbaby: eh_

_Rocketman: I mean, technically that’s an answer. Shit, tones, i missed you. I was a mess for months, all i wanted to do was go find you myself but i couldn’t just fly around the world to go looking. I kept getting worked up and my mind was coming up with all these horrible senarios but I’m just so fuckign glad you’re alive._

_Rocketman: I’m so fuckign glad. I don’t know what I woudl do without you in my life, you mean so much to me._

Tony had to muffle the pained noise he made at that, but the CPS lady didn’t notice, scowling at the evening traffic instead.

_Milliondollerbaby: me too. I missed you so much. I wanted you so badly, but it woudl have killed me to have you in those fuckign caves with me._

_Rocketman: I get it, really. But its okay now. We’ve got each other again, right? Just like always. We’re gonna be alright now._

_Milliondollerbaby: youre right. We’ve got each other again. And I have no intention of lettign us get separated again._

_Rocketman: together forever. Till the energy void, right?_

Tony felt his lips twitch in one part amusement and one part angst. No energy can be created or destroyed, Rhodey and Tony bothe believed that as scientific fact, so when the subject of death came up in their second year of college, they decided that when people died, their energy was transferred somehow. Because there was no way of telling where they just called it the energy void.

_Milliondollerbaby: thats exactly right._

_Rocketman: I missed you so much. drove me crazy to not know that you were safe or even alive. I hacked the pentagon for you. At least three times._

_Milliondollerbaby: Thats my sweetums talking. Hey, how are the kids?_

_Rocketman: Butters and u are fine. I’ll tell em ur ok. They missed you too._

_Milliondollerbaby: I’ll skype as soon as I can, i need to see you._

_Rocketman: I need to see you too._

Tony really did. He was getting pretty damn close to cracking under reality right now, upheld by pure willpower and acting skills. With everything that happened, all he wants to do is make a blanket fort and not move for about six or seven years. Preferably with Rhodey and his bots. A big pile of soft and away from reality because fuck it, seriously. Before long they arrived at Tony’s foster home The house was pretty nice, two stories, grass yard. Old looking tree. Shrubs. Cozy. Mostly blue and white.

Tony gathered his things and held the JARVIS Box close to his chest. Clearly, they were watching closely for any arrivals, because just before they got up to the door, the door opened and two smiling people appeared. A man and a woman, both white, both burnet. She wore a green dress, nice and neat, and he wore some casual outfit consisting of pants and a buttoned up polo. He kinda looked like a golfer. Tony hated golf. Golf was the _worst_. It was such a pretentious sport.

Tony had to follow his dad golfing with his ‘friends’ countless times and it was awful because they were just awful people. All their conversation topics were trash, they were crude and sexist and gross. They tried to get Tony to join in ( _“because that’s a fine boy you got there Howard! He should know how the world works, how to act like a man!” Tony hated it so much_ ) and they were… well, old and white, if that explained anything. _Baby boomers._ One time he wore white short shorts, a loose blue women's blouse, gold colored sunglasses, and bright yellow converse. He literally dared them to talk about him. He could see the uncertainty in their fragile masculine gazes as Tony sat in the golf cart, legs crossed ‘like a woman’ and not giving a shit about them.

They knew that once Howard died, Tony would be getting everything. They didn’t dare talk shit about Tony in his very presence, wearing feminine clothing. They were too scared to, but Tony heard several hesitant comments about being too cold, or that it was a phase or maybe the kid didn’t know what he was wearing or what it meant anyway. How they were real men, and real men wore shorts that went past their knees because showing that much skin was girly and dark shirts because lighter colors were for women.

“I hope you get heat stroke and die,” Tony had said blandly, crossing his arms.

Howard had glared at Tony, but honestly, that was the only time he enjoyed going, to see their fragile masculinity break them. Howard had never approved, and occasionally took Tony’s clothes to throw away en mass, but the bad thing about being rich in this scenario was that Tony could just buy everything back.

“Hi! I’m Britney Ashten and this is my husband Ken. It’s nice to meet you,” the foster parent said pleasantly, snapping Tony out of fond memories of telling old cishet, white, sexist, queerphobic men off.

“Tony, Tony Stark.” Tony pushes his hair back out of his face and pushed his sunglasses up again. He needs a haircut, honestly. Tomorrow he’ll find the best salon in the area and take a trip out, he makes a mental note. Get his shit fixed.

“Why don’t you come in and we’ll show you around?” she said with that same bright smile.

Tony wants to lay in a bed more than anything else, to be honest, but he steps in anyway. He’d rather forego this tour and lock himself in whatever his room is supposed to be to call Rhodey, but there are suddenly social expectations again, so he supposes he has to. The house is nice, clean and welcoming. It’s nothing impressive, which is actually more settling than anything else, but it’s simple and homey and well lived in.

The room offered to him is simple and bland, with blue walls, a white closet door, and a scattering of furniture. There’s a sturdy bed, a nice closet, a desk and nothing else. Oh, and a swivel chair made of fabric instead of leather, probably from Ikea if the tag was anything to go by. He and Rhodey used to go to the closest IKEA to get food sometimes when they were at MIT. It was almost an hour away and they couldn’t drive there by themselves, they were like, thirteen, but the food was good and Tony has fond memories and mementos at the mansion.

Tony sets the JARVIS Box on the desk, puts the rest of his stuff on his new bed, and looks out the window. The room is in the back of the house, so he’s overlooking a decent backyard. There's a trampoline, so there must be at least one other kid here, especially because there’s sports stuff there too, and Tony’s not exactly known for kicking balls around.

Is that a euphemism? Probably.

There was a nice patch of flowers along the fence, bright yellow, purple, red, and orange. “Nice garden,” he compliments politely.

“Thank you,” Brittany says with a smile. “Now, let me give you the tour.”

She shows him first where the bathroom, kitchen, and living room are. She then also shows Tony where the basement door was, details the emergency evacuation plan, and points out where the master bedroom was located and where to find her son’s room. The door to that room was covered in stickers and had a keep out sign duct taped to it.

Tony hadn’t thought that was a thing. Apparently, it was.

It all seemed very… reality TV show. He looked for cameras suspiciously but found none.

The CPS agent spoke with the couple for a few minutes before leaving, saying goodbye to Tony on her way out. Tony watched the car drive away through the living room window, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and alone.

He went to his room and started putting things away. Clothes put in the closet. All his tech shit? Stuffed into the desk wherever it fit. He put his jewelry box next to his laptop, a little spot of honor. When everything seemed to be just about right, he turned Dum-E on. Dum-E beeped loudly at him, clearly full of joy at seeing Tony again. “Sh!” Tony said with a finger to his lips and smiled. “And I’m glad to see you too. How are the joints, buddy?”

Dum-E wiggled around, proving that the joints were decently oiled, and started exploring the room.

While Dum-E was busy, Tony started to set up his workstation. He got his computer all set up, hacked into the internet for practice, and plugged the JARVIS Box up to it. He ran a few diagnostics tests before activating JARVIS again.

“Hey, buddy. Nice to see you again,” Tony said, smiling.

“And I you,” JARVIS agreed, relief audible in his voice. “All of my programs and files are in place, I can access the internet, and I’m glad to see you’re safe and sound again. I… was afraid you were gone, sir.”

Tony hugged the JARVIS Box and pressed a kiss to the side of it. “Aw, buddy. I missed you too,” he replied. He let go and gave a more lopsided smile to the computer camera. “Honestly, I’m too drained for a whole big reunion with tearful words, but I will say this: I missed you a whole lot and you are a sight for sore eyes, buddy.”

“I’d say the same…” JARVIS teased.

“But you don’t have eyes, I get it,” Tony said in amusement. “Sight for sore circuits?”

“Ah, that fits much better I think.”

Tony laughed, and it felt nice to laugh again, it really did. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, rubbing his face. “Call Platypus, please.”

“Calling, sir…” JARVIS agreed.

After about twenty seconds, the call picked up and Tony’s camera flashed online. The dark image quickly adjusted and there was Rhodey, looking at the screen in concern. The worry lines along his face smoothed out. “Tony,” he said, utterly relieved.

“Rhodey,” Tony replied, the word slipping out without any input. “Hey, buttercup,” Tony said next.

Rhodey smiled at him, looking so welcoming and happy, with that sad look about his eyes remaining. “Hi,” he said simply.

“It’s so nice to see you again,” Tony said. “There were times I thought- I- it was hard,” he said lamely. “I’m sorry, I-” Tony shrunk, all these emotions welling up again.

“Oh, no, you have nothing to be sorry for, this was all just bullshit out of our control,” Rhodey assured, holding his hands out, as if for Tony to take. “It’s alright, honey. I’ve got you, alright? C’mon, Tones.”

“I’m- I’m okay. It’s just been a hard few… months. I need- I don’t know what I need. I need you, but that’s… not really an option. We’re gonna have to wait on that for a bit.”

“Yeah, we might, but I’m still here for you, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like a bit of a mess, Tones.”

“That’s an understatement,” Tony joked. “Ugh, I feel like a mess. With everything that happened? My skin needs a serious spa treatment. I have sand in my _pores_ , honestly!”

Rhodey gave a weak chuckle.

“I’m exhausted,” Tony said honestly, feeling every word in his soul.

“That’s fine, honey. You should, I don’t know, probably get some sleep, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t…” Tony shook his head. “I’ll be okay for a bit. How- how are my baby bots?”

Rhodey glanced off screen, “Hey, c’mon, who wants to see daddy?” Rhodey glanced over. “Daddy, right?”

“For now,” Tony said, waving his hand. “I feel like it’s wavering a bit, but daddy works. Honestly, we need to find a good gender neutral term. All the ones on the internet just seem so _eh_ though.”

Rhodey scooped up the bots and put them on the same surface as the computer. Butters and U beeped and waved wildly.

“Aw, there are my baby bots. I missed you guys,” Tony cooed. “I’m okay, thank you for asking Butterfingers. And U, I missed you too, both of you. Uncle Rhodey’s been taking good care of you, huh?”

Butterfingers nodded and beeped some more.

“Oh, yeah, I have Dum-E with me over here. He’s keeping me company. JARVIS too. Here, Dum-E?” Tony picked up the bot and put him on the desk, where the three bots proceeded to beep and chirp and squeal up a storm.

After a while, Tony started nodding off. He kept having to pull his head up and open his eyes.

“Tones,” Rhodey said softly. “Get some sleep. Please? For me?”

“You play dirty,” Tony said accusingly, pointing.

“I don’t mind playing dirty if it means you get some rest, honey.”

Tony sighed and nodded. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later, Rhodey. Love you.”

“I love you too. Sweet dreams.”

Tony waved at the bots as well. “Love you too, baby bots. I’ll see you later.” The video stopped a few seconds later. Tony climbed up into his bed, wrapped himself up and closed his eyes, drifting off.

* * *

Tony woke a few hours later, feeling more settled, if not rested. He almost wanted to try to go to bed again, existence be damned, but Britney was knocking at the door and saying it was dinner time, so he had other priorities. Not great priorities, but he still had them.

Tony’s foster parents’ son returned from school in the time Tony took his nap. He was in middle school, from what Tony could gather and going through that rebellious phase. The kid was shorter than Tony, which would be a relief but wasn’t and he had a 3DS in hand. When Tony came into his vision, a sort of permanent annoyed look came over his face and didn’t leave.

“Hi, I’m Tony.”

“Ted,” the boy replied shortly. “Stay out of my room.”

“Okay, not that I was interested in going into your rat den anyway. Like, what? Fragile ego much? Excuse you.”

Ted scowled.

Dinner was super awkward. Ted didn't talk to Tony and Britney and Ken were kind of oblivious to the awkward nature of their dinner. They kept trying to push a conversation on the group and didn’t notice when it flopped.

Tony ate a little faster than everybody else, hunching over his food. He knew it was stupid, but he felt like someone would try to take it. Ted, most likely. In the caves, he only had ten minutes to eat. If he went over, it was yanked from his hands and just gone. They only fed them once a day too. Twice, if someone was feeling generous and terrorists aren’t really… known for such.

That sounds sad. On the plus side, they got thirty minutes before lights out to do whatever they wanted, more or less. He usually played board games with Yinsen. Howard had gone to sleep early, kept working at the weapons he was building, or tried to warm up with the fire or the drink in his gut, supplied generously by their captors.

Tony finished his food in ten minutes. Everybody else took about eighteen. Tony swiped his finger over the remnants of mashed potatoes and licked it off before glancing at Ted, who was playing a game on his 3DS avidly.

“Hey, what’re you playing?” he asked curiously.

“The new Pokémon game,” he said, not looking up. “Pokémon Battle Trozei.”

“Pokémon has a new game?” Tony asked, frowning. He wasn't a big fan, but he had a 3DS and usually knew when something big came out.

“Yeah, what, were you living under a rock?” the boy snarked spitefully, glaring and annoyed at being interrupted.

“I mean, yeah, sort of? A cave is technically under rock, so...” Now it was quieter and twice as awkward. Thanks, mouth. Unfortunately, it kept it’s nonsense up. “I mean, I had a radio. But it didn’t get reception because it was a _cave_. I ended up using it for parts.”

“Um.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to respond to that.” Tony didn’t ask for seconds, he just went to his room and locked the door. He should have asked for seconds, what if he got hungry later? Oh, he could just… go get more food. From the kitchen. That he could access. Of course. Tony sat on the bed and tried to hammer that idea into place, how he could get food for himself, that he wouldn't have to worry anymore, but he was still worrying anyway. He wanted to shout at himself to stop worrying about it, but the worry remained.

“What if I tell your stupid anxious ass to shove it,” he hisses at the feeling. It made him feel better, but the what-if remained.

Tony sighed and went over to his computer, sitting back in his chair. “Okay, J. Let’s get cracking.” He pulled down his shirt to show the reactor. “See my souvenir? It’s outdated. We need a new one.”

“Sir? What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Tony dismissed carefully. “Short version is shrapnel. This arc-reactor is powering an electromagnet to keep it from killing me.”

“I’m already searching for the vital materials,” JARVIS assured Tony.

“Use Super Secret Bank Account number two, please. Number one is too obvious,” he requested.

“Of course, sir, what was I thinking. You’re usually so discreet.”

Tony laughed and found himself surprised by it. God, he missed JARVIS so much. The realization of this hit him hard, like he got punched in the arc-reactor, and he found himself wiping at his eyes. He was alive. He had JARVIS by his side. Dum-E was scattering his sock drawer across the floor with relish. _He talked to Rhodey and saw Butters and U._

Tony cracked his knuckles and focused. “We’ve got a mission, Jay. There are a lot of Stark weapons out there, being used by terrorists, and I’m going to put a stop to it. Get ready for a project.”

“Ready as you are,” JARVIS agreed readily.

Tony grabbed his tablet and pulled up a few files for plans. The armor he made was something he was interested in exploring further, so he started copying those designs by memory onto something more secure. Jarvis helpfully contributed, assisting in the remodeling of the first armor. The trick with this new armor is that he wanted something discreet. Something he could hide in plain sight.

As JARVIS rendered the armor plans and saved it to Tony’s personal files, Tony came up with a neat gauntlet based off of the same tech and designs as the armor. It would keep a much thinner design, and retract into a fashionable vambrace, but would hold the technology capable of a repulsor blast with metal strong enough to deflect a bullet and hologram tech. He would need two of them for his arms and hands.

“While we’re at it,” Tony said. “Come up with a plan to see what we can do about assisting in combating both extremist groups in the Middle East and the poverty and displacement it causes.”

“As in funding? Or otherwise?”

“Funding _and_ otherwise, if you can manage it. Being there, seeing what Stark weapons do to the communities, the people, how they’re being used by terrorists opened my eyes. See what kind of facilities and tech they need and show me some designs.”

Tony considered the armor designs and the helpful list of tests JARVIS recommended for each piece of it, Tony hummed. “Get me a small, uh, warehouse. Get one of your manufacturing rigs and the tools we need but don’t have. Security system installation too.”

“And which bank account should I use?” JARVIS asked dryly.

“You’re a real comedian. Ever consider stand up comedy?” Tony asked.

“Isn’t your entire life one stand up comedy bit, sir?” JARVIS teased innocently.

Tony rolled his eyes. “I should pack you up and ship you off to an elementary school to teach children how to not eat crayons.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

Tony laughed, delighted.

Everybody else went to bed around ten or eleven and Tony tried to, but he just couldn’t. It was too quiet. His arc-reactor was shining light in his face and it hurt to sleep on his sides or front and he wanted to keep working, he had to get this armor ready, he needed plans in place. He did more planning, outlined the new arc-reactor and designed it to be more efficient.

He played fetch the sock with Dum-E and texted Rhodey, even though his best friend was probably asleep.

_Milliondollerbaby: so the foster family is nice._

_Milliondollerbaby: i mean, their son kinda hates me or something, but the couple is nice._

_Milliondollerbaby: I can’t sleep._

_Milliondollerbaby: what’s this i hear about a new pokemon game?_

* * *

Tony was up and already in the kitchen when morning came. Tony was feeling less male that day, in that pleasant neutral zone that came around every few days (without any rhyme or reason, sometimes just a passing feeling, sometimes a flash of ‘ _different gender right now!_ ’ like a demanding child) and wearing nice baggy soft clothes. Rhodey's hoodie, sweatpants, knee high socks with constellations on them, and a nice soft pink t-shirt. He had little star earrings in and his rose colored sunglasses on mostly for aesthetic, but also because it cut down on the awful glare of the sun.

In the morning, they ate breakfast. Waffles and bacon and fruit. Tony never realized just how good fresh fruit tasted compared to some sort of mass produced glop with hunks of unidentifiable meats in it. Tony got texts back from Rhodey as Tony drank their first cup of coffee in months. It was perfection. Gold in a cup, hot and ready for consumption.

_Rocketman: nice, kids are assholes, u should still try to sleep when u can, naps are nice, and tones, u know I don’t follow pokemon. What u need is a hug *sends virtual hug*_

_Milliondollerbaby: owo, what’s this?_

_Rocketman: stop_

_Milliondollerbaby: LOL, SO RANDOM, rawr XD_

_Rocketman: why._

_Milliondollerbaby: O.O_

_Rocketman: ..._

_Rocketman: U and butterfingers want to go home to you. I know you gave me them for a reason when I went into the system, but they need you right now, more than I need them. They’ve been anxious wrecks since you went missing and I don’t think it’s getting through that you’re okay._

Tony blinked at their phone and then smiled. The baby bots, Tony must have driven them up the wall with worry.

_Milliondollerbaby: okay. Thanks, Rhodey._

_Rocketman: you’ll get to meet Sweetheart too, she’s heard a lot about you, clearly, and wants to meet you._

_Milliondollerbaby: i look forward to meeting your baby bot. <3 _

Apparently, showers were had in the morning. Tony had been using the half bath to go to the bathroom because it didn’t have a shower or anything, so when they went in to take a shower in the other bathroom, saw the tub and the visual overlay of the old metal basin they waterboarded Tony (and Howard) in, they just kinda… didn’t. There was this mixed feeling making Tony slightly light headed and rattled, and they didn’t like it at all, so Tony just turned tail and went back to the kitchen.

“You know, that thing just took three showers, I bet the water is cold, I’ll just take one tonight if that's okay?” Not that Tony was really asking. They wouldn’t stoop that low, to rely on other people’s permission to _bathe_.

“Sure, Tony. You’re probably right anyway,” Britney said.

Tony went back to their room and grabbed their phone, trying to shake off jitters.

_Milliondollerbaby: hey i think tubs are a no for me rn_

_Rocketman: ? you okay?_

_Milliondollerbaby: yeah, i just get this weird feeling, I don’t like it_

_Rocketman: that sucks, you got it tho, right?_

_Milliondollerbaby: I’ll figure it out._

_Rocketman: cool, good. Im here for you tho if u need me_

_Milliondollerbaby: thx baby <3 _

Britney was, apparently, a stay at home mom/work at home parent, but Ken was some kind of realtor. Tony mostly stayed in their room, but Britney made them lunch so they felt obliged to join her for it, as they were the only two in the house.

Tony was startled out of their work to his phone buzzing.

_Sweets: !!! (Robot face emoji) (Woman pilot emoji) (Airplane emoji) (Rocket emoji) (Man emoji) (Airplane arrival emoji) (House emoji) (Clock emoji) 5_

Tony squinted. What the hell did that mean? Okay, first, Sweetheart was the messenger, clearly, the first three symbols were Sweetheart identifying herself, the robot pilot in an airplane. The second part, rocket and a man? Rhodey’s text name. Airplane arriving, a house, a clock and the number five.

Oh shit, the little robot was arriving in five minutes. Tony got up, jogging out of the house and keeping an eye to the sky.

A quiet humming sounded and Tony peered at the clouds. The door behind him made a rattling noise and Tony looked back at the screen door to see Dum-E wailing and trying to come outside. Tony jogged back and brought Dum-E out with him. Tony put Dum-E down on the ground next to them and looked up, finally spotting the aircraft. It was a small cargo jet with vertical lift off abilities, beautifully designed and clearly very efficient.

The ship slowed and gently landed on the front lawn and Tony crouched down, smiling as the hatch on top of the small jet opened and Sweetheart stood up, waving shyly. She was a fairly small, only a foot tall, maybe less, with human proportions, though those proportions had the clunky exterior a robot generally has. Her head was simple and smooth, with a vertical line down the center of her face where the camera and light was. She was also wearing a dark green flight jumpsuit thought she clearly didn’t need any breathing apparatus or any bodily equipment.

“Hi there. You must be Sweetheart, right? I’m Tony. Nice to meet you. ” Tony held out their hand and shook with her. “Nice flying.”

She put a hand to her lower face and then gestured forward. Tony translated that to ‘kisses’ or ‘thank you.’

“Not a problem, dearest,” Tony said with a grin. “Now, let's get Butterfingers and U out to see their brother. Oh, and of course, this is Dum-E, Butterfingers and U’s older brother. By about a month, maybe less. Dum-E, this is Rhodey’s bot, Sweetheart.”

Tony helped Dum-E up to shake with Sweetheart. The two bots beeped at each other in a binary conversation.

Tony opened up the jet and Butterfingers and U rolled out. When they realized where they were and spotted Tony, they shrieked with joy and started trying to drive up him.

Tony laughed and hugged them, even though their cool metal, hard edges, and they way their flailed wasn’t exactly great for it. “Yeah, yeah, daddy’s back! I’m fine, I swear. Aw, I missed you guys. You’ve been good for Rhodey, right?”

Tony put the two bots down and they zoomed around Tony in an excited circle. After they worked their excitement off, U zipped back to the jet and dragged out a small box, pushing it at Tony. Butterfingers grabbed a small case as well, of his stuff.

Tony put his hand on U’s box. “Is this… for me?”

She nodded and watched him expectantly as Tony used a screwdriver to cut the tape and open it up. He melted a bit. “Aw, Rhodey-bear.” Tony hugged the platypus as he opened the small ring box. It was an adorable little abacus ring! The earrings, the chemical dopamine, immediately went on their ears, the stars being put in the case for safe keeping.

“He’s so sappy,” Tony said fondly. “Now, let's all go inside, yeah?” Sweetheart nodded and the bots beeped in agreement. Tony closed the jet and picked it up, bringing it over to the house and leading it on the porch, where it would be safer. Tony gathered the bags and box and the bots, bringing them inside and heading to the living room. Tony set them all on the coffee table and sat on the ground.

“It’s been forever, baby-bots. U, Rhodey told me he built you a drone? How’s that workin’ for you?”

U nodded enthusiastically and then made a so-so motion.

“That’s right,” Tony said. “He took it apart for parts. Don’t worry, I’ll make you a new one, I swear it.”

U beeped happily.

“Butterfingers, still dropping things, I bet?” Tony teased.

Butterfingers gave a shaky claw.

“Just a bit? Fair enough. I also saw all your baking, I’ll be sure to get you a new easy-bake soon. I bet it’s great to see Dum-E after forever too, huh?” All three nodded and started beeping among themselves.

“Now, Sweetheart, it’s nice to have you. Do you need anything? I know you don’t eat or drink, but if you want to take a break and relax, I’m sure I can get you what you’d like.”

Sweetheart shrugged and beeped.

“Alright, just let me know. And hey, I’ve got to think you for saving Rhodey from Justin Hammer. Seriously. I don’t know what I’d do without my honey-boo. I might have gone insane, I’m not even joking. Full on supervillain style batshit crazy. I definitely would have crushed Justin under a steamroller. Rhodey is very important to me. Be sure to thank Peep and Jason for me. Jason is right, right? Or was it Jameson?”

Sweetheart held up one finger.

“Jason was right, okay good, I was just unsure for a second.”

“Tony? Who are you talking to? And what the hell is in our porch?” Britany asked, walking into the living room. Sweetheart went still and stiff, stuck in a robotic stance, fingers flat and unmovable as she clattered over. U and Butterfingers hauled ass off the table and rolled under the couch.

Tony blinked and did some quick thinking. There’s no way Rhodey would program or teach his or Tony’s bots to go still or hide if someone walked in, he wasn’t like that, so this was something Sweetheart and the others did on purpose.

“Just, uh, playing with Dum-E and some old toy,” Tony lied lamely. “It’s an old one I made. It doesn't do anything, but I’ve got a fondness.”

“Oh,” Britany said dumbly, like she was ready to go on about something and found it unnecessary. “Okay, that’s just fine. Just wondering. If you need anything, I’ll be in the office. Ken is out and Ted is already at school.”

“Oh,” Tony said. “Okay.”

Once Britany was gone, Tony took his three bots and Sweetheart to his own room, where the claw-bots synced up with JARVIS and spoke to each other. Tony put Sweetheart on his desk and she made a ‘thank you’ motion.

“Yeah, no problem. But I have to ask, why?” Sweetheart looked down, crossing her arms and scuffing the desktop with a foot. “I know it can’t be Rhodey, he loves you guys. Is it the house? The people?”

Sweetheart shrugged and nodded. She mimed a person walking alone, a startle and scream, and violent kick punctuating by something cracking. She made a J with her pinkie and made a jagged motion across her chest.

“Jason got kicked hard enough to crack his chest plating? Tesla, that’s awful. I guess it makes sense that you play dead when people come around. But… you should be okay here. If you don’t want to… be seen as an AI in front of people, that’s okay too.”

Sweetheart gave a little salute.

“You want to watch a movie?”

Sweetheart nodded and signed something too fast for Tony to repeat or recognize. “I- I don’t really know any sign language. I’m sorry.”

Sweetheart considered and mimed swinging a baseball bat.

“Hmm.”

Sweetheart scratched her head and crouched, acting out grabbing a handful of earth and letting it fall out of her hand.

“Dirt? No? Uh, rocks? No? Sand?”

Sweetheart nodded and made a big motion with her hands.

“A ton? A lot?”

Sweetheart held up two fingers.

So… Sand… lot. “Oh! Yeah, good choice. Give me a second to set it up.”

Apparently, Sandlot was Sweetheart’s favorite and she acted out several scenes, amusing both Tony and the bots, who tried to act as other characters with her.

Tony suddenly had a burning question. “How did you text me?”

Sweetheart then proceeded to pull the Tesla damned smallest fucking phone Tony has ever seen out of her pocket. Tony laughed, delighted, and took it between their fingers, grinning at it. It was about the size of a quarter, in all honesty. Maybe a half dollar, if they were being generous.

She left after a few hours, giving hugs to Butterfingers and U and waving to Tony and Dum-E. She left in her craft, vanishing into the clouds. Tony texted Rhodey immediately after.

_Milliondollerbaby: your baby girl is so sweet! And I love the presents, I’m already wearing the earrings. I really need to get a haircut so they get shown off better. They’re beautiful. And the ring? Adorable, and useful!_

_Milliondollerbaby: and I really really like the platypus stuffed animal. It makes me think of you._

_Rocketman: (heart emoji) (blushing face emoji) They were supposed to be your b-day presents, but I’m glad you got them now._

* * *

Tony didn’t take the shower yesterday, on purpose, of course, so in the morning Britney confronted him about it, looking confused and mildly upset. “Personal hygiene is important in this house. I don’t care if you don’t take one every day, but you need to shower at least every other day. Can you please do that? You’re smelling a bit like a garage.”

Tony blinked at her. “Um.”

“Please.”

“They waterboarded me,” Tony’s mouth says. “In Afghanistan. I couldn’t breathe or I’d suck in a lungful of water and it’d burn and that made me panic more and they kept me under longer because I was fighting them.”

Britney looked horrified and took a half-step back. “My Lord…”

“That’s not even including the electricity. Gave me heart damage. And, uh, every time I look at the tub I remember that and it makes me feel weird. It’d be so easy for someone to come up behind me and shove me under again. Taking shower doesn’t make that much better because it puts water on my face and I can’t…” Tony shook his head because _why was he telling her this._

“Um… that’s um… ah…” she trailed off, looking around awkwardly. “Could you… use a washcloth?”

“I considered a bucket, but really, anything I can fit my head in and holds water is a… no.”

“You could… use the hose. The faucet is in the garage, so that’s privacy. It’d be cold though, so, um.”

Tony felt a little dismayed that her offering was a hose of all things, like he was a dirty car or a muddy dog, but it was a better idea. It would let him rinse his hair without getting water on his face too. “Cold might be better,” he allowed. “The water was usually warm and sandy, because, y’know… desert.”

“Okay. I’ll get you a few towels so you can keep them there. And we’ve got travel sized shampoo and body wash and conditioner,” she floundered. “Take those too.”

“Thanks.”

So Tony went into the garage, locked the door, stripped, and turned on the hose. He set it at a fast trickle because it was easier to control and sat on an old empty silver garbage can turned on its side. He carefully did not panic as he wet his hair. He shampooed, rinsed carefully again, conditioned, and rinsed, and then was mostly in the clear, panic wise.

He then started washing himself using the trickle of water and a washcloth. Shoulders, armpits, arms, torso, around the reactor, carefully dabbing at the mess of scars spider webbing and splashing his skin. He washed his junk and butt, (pleasant, that) his legs, and feet.

He narrowed his eyes in a glare. How the hell would he shave his legs and armpits like this? He’d figure it out later. He rinsed the washcloth and went over himself twice in order to get the soap off. He dried off with a different dry washcloth instead of a towel because he wasn’t soaked. Really, he could have just put his fresh clothes on.

He pulled on new underpants, jeans, a shirt, his clean hoodie, and took his laundry to the laundry room. He had taken to labeling his stuff with his initials so Ted couldn’t take any more of his shirts. Tony had lost a Metallica shirt in the short time he’d lived there and didn’t want to fight to get it back. He’d just steal it back when he left.

Tony sighed when he got back to his room and pushed his damp hair off of his face. He needed to get that cut. He resolved to fix that now and grabbed his phone, wallet, and after some debate, took a long screwdriver, putting it in his waistband. It wasn’t a lot, defense wise, but it would definitely work in a pinch.

He nodded to himself, put a little steel in his spine, and left his room, calling out “I’m going out!” to Britney as he looked for a barber in the area on his phone. The closest was at a mall that was about a mile away, but that was almost nothing, so he walked down unfamiliar streets despite the vague paranoia at being somewhere he knows nothing about and all the shadows around him. He made it to the mall in one piece and walked right into the hair salon, confidently getting in queue for a haircut at the front desk. He had to wait for a bit, so he sat, grabbing a magazine and thinking about what he would ask for when he sat. Something sleek and a bit spiky, something fairly low-maintenance but versatile. Something like a spiky faux hawk/quiff cut with nicely cut sides and back.

He got his haircut, which made him feel slightly overwhelmed and he didn’t know why, and was proud of the result. It was cute, it was soft, it was long enough to play with a bit, it was nice and neutral, and it had the spiky quiff cut look that he wanted. He slapped fifty dollars on the counter, told them to keep the change, and left.

Halfway home, with a cherry Slurpee he got from the food court before he left, he abruptly realized he didn’t want to talk to anyone else for like, a week, and felt tired of being outside already.

He got home, shouted his presence so Britney didn’t think he was a robber, and locked himself in his room, slipping onto his bed and grabbing his phone. He snagged his earrings off the desk, put them in, grabbed Rhodey’s stuffie, and took a selfie, flashing a peace sign to the camera, his new ring visible.

He put it through a few filters and sent it to Rhodey.

_Rocketman: (heart emoji) (heart eyes emoji) (thumbs up emoji) (OK hand emoji) That is some good, cute shit right there! Damn, you looking fine and adorable!_

Tony smiled and burrowed under the blankets happily. Later, after feeling a bit rejuvenated with the quiet in his room, he worked more on his projects, well into the night as well.

The next morning, and Tony was tired. He had been up all night working on figuring out how to make his new armor sleek and hideable on his person, Ted pointed at him. “What’s with the light bulb?”

Tony looked down. He was wearing a white shirt and forgot his hoodie. “It’s um… an electromagnet powered by an arc-reactor. It’s keeping the shrapnel in my chest from killing me,” he explained.

Ted looked stunned and disgusted. “Ugh, ew?”

“Ted,” Ken chastised, but he and his wife also looked taken aback.

“Be nice to Tony, Ted,” she chastised. “He’s been through a lot.”

And okay, while that reaction wasn’t the greatest, he definitely preferred it to that little pearl of a sentence. He didn’t- he didn’t want people to be nice and kind because he was tortured and stuff, he just wanted them to be polite or something because he was a human being. And throughout the day, she kept checking on him and stuff. Kept looking him out of the corner of her eye, being extra polite which made Tony feel worse about interacting with her.

Like, yeah, his torture and stuff sucked but treating him like porcelain wasn’t something he cared for. Like, just acknowledge that he can’t have baths and was a prisoner in Afghanistan and move on, lady.

Sheesh.

* * *

After about… four days of no sleep, Tony finally went to bed. He was pretty exhausted, he had everything planned out and accounted for and, well, he felt safe enough. He had a completely flushed out designed for the armor, after going over every piece and component and all the options for those along with compatible materials and the coding necessary for the technical aspects, came up with the new design for gauntlets he could take with him wherever he went. He wanted vambraces that looked like fancy bracelets and unfolded into gauntlets, rocket boots, a chest plate, and a helmet. He was still growing so it was best to not do the full suit, but he could manage that much assuming he wanted to be able to hide those things one way or another. Because of the opening that gave, he would need a body suit of some kind that could keep all those components connected to his arc-reactor for power.

He had a majority of the designs, so he just had to get rid of some things and keep others, modifying them to be thinner and stronger. He had JARVIS go on a search for possible materials to make the body armor out of as he fixed the chest plate. He could reasonably get away with making it look like a satchel or large purse. Assuming that, he started working.

He kept holograms of each design up and flicked between them as he got ideas. When JARVIS configured a body suit capable of self modification to size, bulletproof and capable of the energy transfer Tony needed, he stuck that up with the others and flicked the gauntlets into place on it.

“The helmet I can work with, to a degree. I can make it part of the chest plate, even if it makes the bag a little bigger or I need to carry it somehow,” Tony muttered.

JARVIS and he had come up with a fairly comprehensive plan to aid displaced families and communities in the Middle East, and Tony also had most of the parts he ordered for the arc-reactor, the new design he also worked on in that four day period. When his packages had arrived, he had grabbed the boxes out of the hands of his foster parents and bolted for his room because it was, in all honesty, his own business, not theirs.

JARVIS had successfully rented an empty warehouse and ordered the rigs and tools Tony requested, with a team of hired experts installing a security system as Tony got ready to try to sleep.

So yeah. Productive. Besides that, he felt safe enough to try to sleep. (He assembled a mini alarm/gun system that JARVIS was connected to so he could protect Tony, but that was beside the point.)

But despite JARVIS protecting him, Tony had a nightmare.

_He was back in the Humvee, playing a game on his phone. Sure, the weapons demo was cool, but it was just another bomb dad built and Tony pointed out flaws on before Howard sent it to production and it ended up blowing up prematurely. The soldiers were talking around him. He didn’t understand their words. It all sounded foreign._

_All of a sudden, the truck flipped and fire and chaos sprung from the ground. His heart was pounding in his ears, his breath was coming quick and harsh, his vision was spotty and bright, Tony was out of the Humvee and running to his dad, who was on his knees as the Ten Rings leader pointed a gun at his head. There wasn’t any air in his lungs and he choked out water._

_His feet were stuck to the ground, his movements like he was in syrup, like he was drowning. Tony was screaming and begging them not to kill his dad, saying there wasn’t any reason to, that he could be helpful, that they didn’t have to but there was an explosion as the gun fired, Tony’s chest was shredded, and brain and blood and bone were spilling over the ground and it was so dark- so dark- and his dad didn’t have much of a face left-_

Tony jolted up screaming his head off, breaths bitten off as he coughs through dust in his lungs and water in his throat, a torrent of horrible images flashing in his mind.

He flailed violently, trying to get ahold of his surroundings, but it was just dark, like the cave, and oh, god, was he back, was he-? Where was Yinsen? He usually calmed Tony down. If he was too loud then they might come in and put him under until he passes out and then dump him back in bed soaking wet and shivering.

The lights flicked on and Tony straight up scrambled back, slamming his back against the wall as he gasped for breath, arms thrown up to protect himself and stared with wide eyes at Ken, Britney, and a pissed off looking Ted.

Tony couldn’t comprehend. Where is he-? Were they taken too?

“Tony? What’s wrong? What happened?” Britney said, rubbing her eyes, and why was she here, wasn’t the desert-? His breathing was too fast, big gulps of air with short puffs and pants as his lungs failed to expand. His hands were shaking and he couldn’t stop it.

Tony’s computer snapped on and the Jarvis Box glowed with power. “Sir, today’s date is June 23rd, 2014. You are in the Kensen homestead, in New York. The time is 2:37 AM-” JARVIS started calmly.

Tony looked over and listened to JARVIS, going so far as to grabbing the computer off his desk to hold. Dum-E, U, and Butterfingers zoomed across the room and knocked into the door, shutting it with a few angry beeps and shrieks which drove the Ashten's outside.

“-Weather stations suggest today will be sunny with minor cloud cover and it is very important that you try to breathe regularly.”

“Can’t-” Tony wheezed out, coughing again which drove the little air he managed to get out again and making his lungs burn.

“You can do anything you set your mind to, sir, I’ve seen that first hand. Now, please, look at the computer and match your breathing with the visual.”

Tony pulled the computer away, breath stuttering and vision blurring and watching as an animated video appeared. The shape on it started as a triangle and then slowly expanded into a square, a pentagon, a hexagon, a septagon, and so forth, then collapsing back down into a triangle and repeating the process. Tony shakily sucked in an uneven breath as it expanded, and practically sputtered it out as it deflated.

After about ten more repetitions and JARVIS’s encouragement, Tony could breathe on his own. His chest wasn’t squeezing and he’s gotten ahold of his surroundings. It’s still hazy around him, like an idea that won’t leave him alone, or like a fever dream overlapped with reality, but he realized that it wasn’t real at least.

Tony slumps over, head in his hands. “F-fuck.”

“You are alright, sir. Night terrors are something to be expected after a traumatic experience,” JARVIS said kindly.

“Fuckin’ sucks.” Dum-E wheels over and beeps, the other two hanging back and clicking their claws anxiously. Tony gave a wet smile and patted Dum-E’s claw. “Thanks for closing the door, buddy. All of you.”

Dum-E squeals from the praise and turns in a circle as the other two boots coo. Tony feels the smile fall off his face and turns to tap his forehead against the computer. “Fuck.”

“If you’d like, sir, we could work more on possible designs for Master Rhodes’ armor,” JARVIS offered.

Tony ran a hand through his greasy, sweaty, hair. He was safe. He had his bots. He had JARVIS. “Yeah, sure. Sounds good.” He goes to make coffee and get dressed because he wasn’t about to science in sleepwear.

* * *

In the morning he was still awake and working with a tablet pen to start putting some finishing touches on the chest plate for Rhodey. He was wearing the fishnet stocking that came up to his stomach, short shorts, a loose t-shirt, and his specially designed work gloves. Dum-E was up on the desk too, being pretty helpful actually, doing some nice work on the other side of the hologram, taking apart the neck attachment and reducing the material used by implementing some new joints and components. U was busy redesigning the shoulders to reduce drag. Butterfingers was charging, having stayed up with Tony the longest. The other two had taken the time to charge while Tony worked on putting in an arc-reactor into the chest of the new armor. Tony double checked his work on the computer and had JARVIS run a scan to make sure everything was in the right place and would fit together.

As he rearranged the joints to fold up into a backpack with the arc hidden in the center, his headphones blasted sound into his ears and he sang along. _“Ano kousaten de, minna ga moshi sukippu wo shite. Moshi ano machi no mannaka de te wo tsunaide sora wo miagetara. Moshi mo ano machi no dokoka de, chansu ga tsuka mitai no nara. Mada naku no ni wa hayai yo ne, tada mae ni susumu shikanai wa iya iya!”_

It was a song Tony’s friend Rumiko made Tony listen to when he was in a private high school in Japan. She made him learn the dance as well, but to be honest, ‘made him’ was a bit of a stretch. He enjoyed learning the dance with her because she really liked the song and she was the one person he really connected with overseas. The one negative trait Japan gave him was a hatred of root beer. He’s not sure exactly why, but hate for root beer just soaked into him like a sponge. It just tastes gross to him now.

Other than that? Japan was great. He learned the language in a few months out of necessity, Rumiko helping him of course, and he loved it there. It was away from Howard, the culture was fun and people were fascinated that he was from America, always asking him how to say certain words or what that word printed on that t-shirt really said, and shopping was always a lot of fun with Rumiko. She introduced him to a lot of the things he still currently wears and the interest pop-culture had in the androgynous helped him put names to some of the feelings he had.

Breakfast time was helpfully communicated to Tony via pounding on his door and Tony carefully saved all of their work and placed Dum-E and U on the ground and told them to go play with some socks. He didn’t dare get them real balls because the last time he did that he slid on them and went right down the stairs, spraining his ankle and bruising his back in the process. No balls.

“No capes!” Tony said in a thick accent as a reaction to his thought, tossed his headphones on the bed, and went into the kitchen.

Breakfast was pancakes, plain pancakes with no sides, not even fruit. Tony ate them and was relieved to find they were nothing like Jarvis’s killer homemade pancakes. Jarvis had some secret ingredient that Tony never could identify. Maybe one day he’d figure it out, through trial and error or a recipe hidden in a long forgotten book, but no such luck.

“So, Tony,” Ken started, after staring at Tony’s outfit for a good couple of minutes like he was trying to solve a complex math problem in his head and couldn’t. “You kind of woke us up there, buddy. Did something happen?”

Tony thought it was pretty self explanatory and kind of wanted them to not mention it at all, so… “I mean, I had a nightmare,” he said awkwardly. “Night terror. Bad dream. Whatever you want to call it.” He popped a forkful of pancakes into his mouth, internally sighing and missing Jarvis’s pancakes.

“One hell of a nightmare,” Ken furthered.

“Well… yeah.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No?”

“Okay, okay, I won’t push,” Ken said. “But if you wanna talk about it, I’m here for you.”

“The sentiment is nice, but I have doubts.”

Ken blinked.

“Sorry, mouth has a bad filter sometimes. Point being… It’s bad. You don’t wanna hear the fucked up shit in my head, and you’re not a therapist, so.”

“Language,” Ken said gently.

“I’m going to school, bye dad, bye mom,” Ted said, throwing his plate in the sink and grabbing his bag. He didn’t give his parents long to say bye back because he was out the door in a hot second.

Ken rubbed his neck. “Um. What- uh, what about that voice in your room and the… claw robots, then?”

“That’s JARVIS, the voice, and Dum-E, U- the letter-, and Butterfingers. They’re my AI’s.”

“Oh, really. That’s... interesting.”

“Thanks. They’re not robots, by the way. They’re intelligent. Not like Siri at all. They have feelings, so don’t, you know, be mean, I guess.”

“But they’re robots.”

“I _just_ said they were not robots, so no they _still_ aren’t,” Tony corrected. “No more than you are, is what I’m saying.”

“If it’s not human, it’s not a person,” Ken argued gently.

“I mean, I have a Ph.D. in the subject so I think I have the authority to tell if my AI’s are people or not,” Tony said, sipping his coffee and raising an eyebrow.

Ken looked taken aback. “Are you taking back to me?”

Tony mock gasped. “You noticed!” Tony replied sassily, quirking his lips.

“Go to your room,” Ken demanded.

Tony laughed, he knows he shouldn't but he does anyway, tilting his head back and everything. “Oh my god, you think you have some authority over my actions! That’s so adorable _Ken._ ”

Ken looked stunned. “Fine then, you’re grounded.”

Tony snorted into his coffee. “You and what army? Ken, _darling,_ I _designed_ and _built_ your phone.” Tony pointed at it, resting face down on the table. “You can’t touch me, tech wise. You take my computer, I gut your TV and turn it into a touchscreen tablet to donate to the nearest art school. You parental lock me out of the internet, I hack the internet to parental lock you out of it. Don’t fool yourself, Ken. You’re not my dad, you’re not my parent, your attempt to parent me was subpar at best and there’s nothing you can do to get me to follow your orders.” Tony didn’t break eye contact with Ken as he sipped his coffee. “Following’s not really my style,” Tony said.

Ken was speechless.

Tony checked his watch and hummed. “I’m gonna go. I have some things I’m working on.”

Tony made to leave and paused, grabbing an empty half gallon carton of milk off the recycling pile and quickly pouring the rest of the coffee from the pot into it. He skipped lunch with Britney. A few hours later, after Tony was done working on tech designs for the programs JARVIS created to aid people in the Middle East, made to be cheaper to produce and more efficient, JARVIS spoke up.

“Sir, the security team has installed the system completely and the manufacturing rig should arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

“Fantastic, let's clean up what we’ve made here and make plans to go tomorrow to get started.”

He didn't sleep that night but did finish his arc reactor designs.

“Sir, might I make a suggestion?” JARVIS asked as Tony tinkered with the holographic metal plates around the knees of his armor. He wanted a better seal there.

“Sure, what’s up J?”

“Perhaps we could keep the old reactor,” he suggested. “It could serve multiple functions, namely as a backup or extra battery for any future products. For example, if we were to give me a more efficient storage unit and better processors, for example, it has more than enough power to keep me running and it’s self sustaining.”

Tony blinked, surprised. “That’s… brilliant, good thinking J.”

“Thank you. And, I apologize, I’m about to be ‘touchy-feely’ with you, sir, but it would bring me great pride to being able to carry a little part of you with me if we do so.”

“That’s so fucking cheesy,” Tony said emotionally, reaching over to hug the JARVIS Box.

“Thank you, sir. I learned from the best.”

“You _goob.”_

“I take these as compliments.”

* * *

The next day, Tony called a cab to take him to the warehouse and packed up his computer. Grabbing the JARVIS box and the materials he ordered for his arc reactor, as well as JARVIS’s miniature manufacturing rig, he left, shouting that he’d be out for a while to any residents still present.

“I’m going out,” he called. “Don’t bug me, I’ll be busy! I’ll be back when I come back.”

Britney looked up from her book, looking disapproving and glancing at the boxes in his arms and his backpack, full of tools. “Be back before sunset.”

“I’ll be back when I’m back,” Tony said. “But I’ll see if I can throw a call in around sunset. Bye.”

Tony, of course, had called a cab ten minutes ago and it was waiting for him as he stepped out. He shoved his boxes in, told the driver where he wanted to go, and waited, staring out the window. His phone buzzes and, surprised, Tony fumbles for it, squinting at the fact that no number is showing up. He answers the call and presses it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Sir, it’s me. I figured the best way to communicate with another in our presence was to put up a facade. Am I connect?”

“Hell yeah, nice job. So what’s up?”

“I’ve been running numbers and I’m a little concerned about the lack of safety protocols in place for any of this. The warehouse I rented for this purpose has no protective measures in case something malfunctions.”

“It should work fine. You ran those numbers too. Don’t be such a worry wart, J. We’ve got this.”

“I don’t like being nervous, but you seem hell-bent on making me feel so at all hours of the day.”

Tony gasped. “You said a swear!”

“Sir, if you please.”

Tony snickered in reply to JARVIS’s exasperation and sighed out his amusement. “Listen, Mr. Worry, it will be fine. I trust in us, you know. I want this to work and we’ll make it work one way or another. I’m going to hang up and when we get to the warehouse, we can talk about this as we start working. Capisce?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony hung up and patted the JARVIS box in the box beside him comfortingly. The drive was over in twenty minutes and Tony threw some amount of money at the driver, who nodded, thanked Tony for tipping him something like two hundred percent and drive off after Tony unloaded. The building was small for a warehouse, something like fifty by eighty feet, but was perfect for Tony’s uses. The rig was already in place, by the wall, all unboxed and property put together, and several crates were opposite it.

Tony set up his computer, JARVIS, some cameras, and made a desk area with some abandoned wood boxes left behind by the previous owners. Next, he spent a few minutes unpacking the tools and equipment from the new boxes, them using the combined space of the old boxes and the newly emptied boxes to put them on.

Tony cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders. “Let’s get started.”

“Right, sir. I’ll reprogram the manufacturing rig to start working on the parts for the arc-reactor. But I need-”

“Me to set up your mini-rig to it,” Tony finished. “Small parts. And the materials, I’ll load them up and put them in position.” He rolled up his sleeves and started getting everything in place. It was tricky work, all the parts had to be perfect, so Tony and JARVIS had to be very careful and several manufactured parts had to be redone due to small flaws. By the time they could say all the parts were ready to be put together, it was dark outside and Tony had called his foster parents to say he was busy with a project. Floodlights, as well as the dim light of the ones installed in the warehouse, lit up Tony’s work area.

Tony rubbed his eyes and stretched his hands before actually starting to assemble to pieces, some more fragile than the others.

“I’ve ordered Italian food to be delivered to the warehouse” JARVIS piped up. “It should arrive in thirty minutes.”

“Oh, awesome. You are a gift.”

“I have also messaged Dum-E, Butterfingers, and U to tell them that we shall come home tomorrow and that they are free to play as they desire, as long as they comply with the usual rules.”

“Great. Tell that that I love them bunches and tell Butterfinger and U when their stuff is going to arrive.” Tony carefully used a pair of thin pliers to set a ring of palladium into place. JARVIS automatically scanned it and the screen said that it was indeed perfectly in place. No adjustment needed. Unfortunately, it jostled another piece and Tony had to tease it back into place. It locked once it settled, which was good.

“The Easy-Bake oven should have arrived today but was pushed back to late tomorrow. The drone is en-route and should arrive at the house in two days.”

“Perfecto, you’re a beautiful bouncing baby boy, Jarv.”

The Italian was delicious. JARVIS picked the perfect place, the deliverer didn’t speak a lick of English, so the words they exchanged were in crisp Italian, the familiar words falling off Tony’s tongue. His mother taught him to speak her language first and Howard’s language second. Rhodey loved it when Tony spoke Italian, even if he didn’t know what was being said. Rhodey said that Italian sounded like a good language to argue in and Tony couldn’t even try to disagree.

Once he was full, Tony started working again.

It was early in the morning when Tony put the final piece into position and sat back as it whirred to life, blue pulsating under his fingers. This arc-reactor sang under his fingertips rather than just whirled. Sure, whirling wasn’t bad it just… wasn’t as good. Like having a car battery rather than an arc-reactor. He also made sure to add a microchip that recorded the reactor’s readouts and automatically sent it to JARVIS for monitoring.

“Hot damn, would you look at that, J.”

“I see it quite well, sir. Good job.”

“You too,” Tony said proudly. “Programming the rig would have been a bitch and a half.”

Tony pulled over the testing equipment and plugged the arc’s connecting unit into the socket on the side of it, looking at the readouts on the screen, helpfully provided by JARVIS. Everything looked good. System diagnostics, energy output, all of it. JARVIS even downloaded a program meant to monitor the outputs wirelessly and Tony smiled.

“It works, thank the baby Tesla, let’s get this thing in my chest.”

Tony set up equipment and pulled up a vital monitoring program on his computer, finagled a mirror hanging over his chest, and stripped, building a chair of sorts out of a sheet of metal leaning against the base of a box and the desk area.

He got settled in the seat and glanced at his lineup of tools beside him, the arc-reactor and a few tools to make sure everything inside the chassis was secure. “Alright, let's get this show on the road.”

Tony twisted the old reactor out of its slot and breathed calmly as he watched it and the wire come out. The wire put up resistance, of course, but that wasn’t a bad thing. Next, he yanked it quickly, disconnecting the plug from the baseplate. Discomfort immediately settled in his chest and he quickly went to start rummaging around for the magnet. His fingers touched something wet and slimy and Tony forced back a gag as the smell hit him. He fished around in the unit for the wire and magnet at the end of it, grimacing at the smell and the feel of goop between his fingers and tried to get it out without touching the wall because that would, well, be not good.

“This is gross, this is gross, this is gross, this is gross, gross, gross, _kimoi, kimoi-_ ” Eugh, he’d have to start wiping that shit out of his chest because it was just disgusting.

Tony’s phone rang loudly with stunning clarity and scared the hell out of Tony, who yanked the whole fucking magnet out of his chest like a trout.

His monitor went wild along with the irregular beat of his heart. _“Son of a bitch!”_

“Sir!” JARVIS called in a panic.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Tony said, dropping the goo-covered device on the table and quickly wiping his hands on a towel he set out. He fumbled for the new reactor as his heart raced wildly. If he had managed to get it out better, the way he was planning to, he would have been able to do some systems checks and secure the chassis better, but now he was going into cardiac arrest.

He looked at the mirror and tried several times to connect the wire to the plug in the back. When his shaking hands finally managed it, he gave a pained shout as a sudden influx of electric energy flowed through his veins. His bones felt like they were buzzing with the zap, but his vitals didn’t read anything notable. Tony slumped back and took a second before he clicked the reactor into place.

Great, so that just happened. Tony sighed in annoyance. He’d have to wait for his vitals to balance out before he went in to secure the baseplate and do some checks inside it, so he motioned and JARVIS answered the phone, putting it on speaker.

“Uh, I hope you’re fucking happy, the phone scared the shit out of me and I almost went into cardiac arrest, but your problem is probably so much more important.” Tony was, understandably, irritated.

“I, uh,” Ken said over the phone.

“I’m still working, but I’ll be back after lunchtime or something. Is that what you want? An ETA? I’m _busy._ Doing things that are important. To me at the very least. I’m not even in the way! I’m totally self sufficient, you should appreciate that as a parent.”

“I…? Um, I guess I’ll see you later lunchtime then,” Ken said lamely.

“Great. It’s a date. Caio!”

Tony waved his hand and the call disconnected. “Jay? How long until I’m stable?”

“Ten minutes, to be safe,” JARVIS replied. Tony gave a long suffering sigh and tapped on his stomach. Ten minutes later, Tony twisted the arc out of place and then, minding the wire keeping it all working, wiped out all the nasty plasma in the chassis, secured the socket, and checked for any problems he might encounter in the future regarding the base plate or any of the components. Well… plasma. Need to clean that shit. At least the magnet was built into this one, so he shouldn’t experience any shortages or wire problems from fucking anything up.

He put it back into place and sat up. Tony dropped everything back at his desk, wiped off with a rag, and cleaned off the old arc-reactor. He opened up the JARVIS box and did a few quick adjustments before putting the old arc-reactor into place, secured in a neat little cup holder like bit Tony put in, and connect the wire into the line supplying the batteries with power. JARVIS ran diagnostics, double checked what they had to the theoretical readouts and upon seeing a perfect match, relaxed.

“You’re a champ, J,” Tony said, and finally closed JARVIS Box. The lights within glowed brighter momentarily and lowered to find an equilibrium. They were brighter than before, however, which was a good sign. “A real trooper.”

“I have noted plasma buildup within the reactor,” JARVIS said. “The readouts suggest that extraneous buildup can clog parts of the reactor. As it happens, the arc-reactor in my chassis will… drip.”

“Old news, I’ll work on keeping it clean,” Tony dismissed. “Give you a coffee cup to replace every few days when I wipe it off. Order me some wet-wipes, or something. Does plasma count as biological waste?”

“No, sir. I… I must admit, it brings me comfort to be able to track your vitals in the way. When you were captured, I spent days just worried about your wellbeing.”

“Jay…” Tony started.

“Please, sir. It’s just nice to be able to know that you’re alright.”

“I… I wish you didn’t need that reassurance,” Tony said. “I know this is all fucked up. I mean, first being kidnapped, my dad is dead, so there's that too, and now my fucked up chest, the socket is literally secured to what’s left of my sternum and my ribs and my heart isn’t where it’s supposed to be anymore, and honestly, I’m not sure the attack was random either, so there’s that, but… oh, I don’t know. I just wish everything would be okay again. I don’t want you to be anxious about my whereabouts and health all the time, I wish _I_ didn’t have to be worried about it, but this is what we have to deal with.

“I’m glad you’re here, though. It means a lot to have support. Between you and Rhodey and the bot babies, I feel a whole lot better, honestly. I know you all have my back.”

“I’m more than happy to be here for you sir. I love you, I’m sure you are aware, and I don’t want things to hurt you like this.”

“Thank J,” Tony says, voice wavering too. “I love you too. You’re like… I don’t know, sort of like my kid? But you’re older than I am, I designed you to be an adult. So you’re also kind of like my… uncle, or something, that I made myself. I want to protect you too, even from my fucked up self.”

“I assure you, the last thing I want you to do is protect me from our new reality and yourself, sir. We’re family, sir. I don’t want to be separated from my family any longer.

Tony gave a small wet laugh. “You mushball.”

“I quite like having emotions. I understand why humans find it fickle, but really. They are quite useful.”

“You know what,” Tony announced, smiling. “If you’re going to be a mushball, I’m going to be a mushball.”

He hugged the JARVIS Box, pretending that the warmth coming off of it was body heat, remembering the real Jarvis’s hugs as Tony hugged his AI, thinking about JARVIS, the first time he came online, the hesitancy, the innocence, the bright curiosity (after the abject _panic_ that resulted in ten minutes of silent freaking his shit out and ten more minutes of asking questions about what was happening and begging for some sort of understanding and maybe crying? and reacting to the overwhelming suddenness of existence). Tony had been amazed, stunned. He knew, in theory, that it would work, but seeing, hearing, Jarvis be alive and question what he saw and experienced was surreal and amazing.

“Sir, might I suggest something?”

“Go for it,” Tony said, opening his eyes.

A hologram blurred beside himself and Tony leaned back watching in surprise as it took a shape. The blue light blurred into a soft suit and jacket and a face appeared. It wasn’t quite _Jarvis_ , but it was exactly how Tony pictured _JARVIS_. He was tall and slim with dark hair fluffed up and pushed back in a neat side part, a nice slim jaw, freshly shaved, laugh lines around warm electric blue eyes shaped in a way that looked considering, a kind yet sad smile.

“JARVIS?” Tony asked in a small wavering voice, eyes spilling tears.

“Now really sir. Tears? For me?” JARVIS asked, teasingly, and offering his hands.

“Of course for you, J,” Tony said, hesitantly reaching out and pausing before he touched the blue, too afraid of being disappointed.

“I’ve been working on a theorem for ‘hard light’. It’s not perfect, but I have managed to figure out how to make some resistance using holographic technology. The added energy from the reactor made it possible.”

Tony let out a bitten off sob and stumbled into JARVIS’s hold. The pressure was there, light and soft against his clothes and skin. He could feel JARVIS shift slightly to make the hug better.

“Sir. Really.” JARVIS said softly, running a hand through Tony’s hair. “All this fuss for a hug.”

“I’ve missed you so much, it’s just hitting me all of a sudden,” Tony managed through tightly shut eyes as he dug his hands into the hard light. The light wasn't strong, it couldn't support too much pressure, so his fingers sunk into it like a sponge. JARVIS adjusted his arms a bit and hummed a soft tune, rocking them from side to side softly.

* * *

Tony took a cab back home with his computer and the JARVIS Box, leaving his equipment and tools back at the warehouse. He asked the driver, a Stan Lee, to swing around a McDonalds and Tony bought them both food.

“If this is what it’s like to take you where you gotta go, ask the cab company to send me each time,” Stan told Tony. “I’ll keep my trap shut about any and everything.”

“I’ll consider it,” Tony said, amused.

Dinner was super awkward that night. Ken and Britney were both casting Tony looks, one of pity and sympathy, another of confusion and uncertainty.

“So,” Ken said at last. “What were you busy with, wherever you went?”

“Uh, medical tech. Non-commercial. Too much cost, not enough of a target group. Target group of one. Target group of just me, so.”

“The… the light in your chest.”

“Yep,” Tony says, popping his lips and crossing his legs, leaning his head on his palm, tapping his nails against the table with the other. “It’s kinda like a pacemaker, but it’s also an electromagnet.”

Britney rubbed her head. “Okay, that’s great, but shouldn’t you have a doctor seeing to… your chest instead? A professional?”

“Nope,” Tony said bluntly. “There’s actually only three people in the world who understand how it works and two of them are dead.” When the silence got weird Tony added. “I mean, I have a friend that knows how the device works, but he didn’t see it get installed or… how it’s made. He’s smart though, so he definitely can understand how it works.”

Now that Tony was thinking about it, he should really talk with Rhodey more. Might be nice to have that second opinion.

Tony looked at everyone’s plates and noticed how they all had leftovers. Some stray peas, a glob of mashed potatoes, meat straggling to the drumsticks. Tony had a bone and he was tempted to chew on it more. Sure, fat is gross, but it’s food. And bones aren’t bad when you’re careful about eating around them.

Tony went back to his room and locked his door, flopping on his bed and pulling out his phone.

_Milliondollerbaby: Hey, Rhodey._

_Rocketman: oh shit you pulled out your grammar abilities what did you do_

_Milliondollerbaby: ha ha, very funny, fyi i didn’t do anything, i just wanted to talk to u about something_

_Rocketman: oh, okay, shoot_

_Milliondollerbaby: ok, so, imma be honest, in afghanistan, i got my chest fucked up petty bad._

_Milliondollerbaby: pretty*_

_Rocketman: shit, what? U okay? You were hurt? I mean, i saw the news and u were in the hospital but I thought that was mostly observation and stuff tony what happened_

_Millondollerbaby: kinda, but not only. u remember the arc reactor?_

_Rocketman: yeah, thing is fukin huge and green energy, gotta love it, i kinda wished i had gotten to study it more but ur dad was like ‘you shall not pass!’ so i didn’t get to and stane agreed and gave me tht look? U know, The Look?_

_Milliondollerbaby: yah, i remember it. But anyway, the arc, i got one in my chest, a lil one, it’s keeping shrapnel from spreading my heart to ribbon and is kinda a pacemaker too_

_Rocketman: what. Tony waht the tesla fuckign what_

_Milliondollerbaby: stand by for pics_

_Milliondollerbaby: (Tony’s bare chest, the shining arc-reactor in the center of a mess of scars. It looks slightly like a burn wound around the center, but there are precise scars over his ribs and a confetti burst around that.)_

_Milliondollerbaby: and here’s the inside. Beware, it’s gross._

_Milliondollerbaby: (Tony’s chest, a hand holding the arc-reactor just outside it, a small clump of wires vanishing into a dimly lit hole in the center of Tony’s chest.)_

_Milliondollerbaby: midn the plasma discharge, but so yah_

_Rocketman: What the hell._

_Milliondollerbaby: ya, same._

_Rocketman: are you okay? I can prob hack an airline and hide in a jet to get to where the fuck you are and hitch a ride somehow._

_Milliondollerbaby: nah, i’m p cool. I just wanted you to know b/c I had to tell these fosters about it and it was so awkward because i kinda told them that only 3 ppl know how it works and 2 were ded_

_Milliondollerbaby: but then i added that you prob knew how it worked but u didn’t see it installed or built_

_Rocketman: damn, tones_

_Rocketman: thats fuckin hardcore af_

_Rocketman: can u send me specs so i can look over em and tell how it works?_

_Milliondollerbaby: ya, i’ll get J to email u_

_Rocketman: (thumbs up emoji) I’m glad you have jarvis, mostly b/c u get sad when ur alone (J is like, idk, an uncle to u or something)_

_Rocketman: does that make you the gay cousin_

_Milliondollerbaby: haha, funny_

_Rocketman: but for all seriousness, i would totes cross the state if u needed me, just say the word. These people are eh anyway. I think i’ll be moving houses soon too, so bleh_

_Milliondollerbaby: bleh?_

_Rocketman: these ppl are the kind that put ur clothes in a garbage bag when u leave_

_Milliondollerbaby: ew, ur right_

_Rocketman: but they dd get me a cake for my 14th brthday, so that was cool i guess_

_Milliondollerbaby:..._

_Milliondollerbaby: on my birthday i was in a cave so_

_Milliondollerbaby: u win._

_Rocketman: this fucking sucks_

Tony blinked.

_Milliondollerbaby: honey?_

_Rocketman: the cake sucked. The day sucked. The bar has litterly never been fuckign lower. I got a cake on my birthday, whoopdefuckign do that’s what’s supposed to happen. I’m supposed to have a party, have a cake, have my parents, have you, and get presents. I wasn’t supposed to be orphaned and used and passed around like a bad penny_

_Rocketman: you were supposed to have a party, your dad, even if he was an utter cock all the time and never appreciated you like i do, you were supposed to have me and we shouldn't be celebrating such trivial bullshit. We wanted to go to that water park and have an awesome day out_

_Rocketman: now you get panic attacks from water, so that idea is down the shit tube forever and thats fine but its not fair to you!_

_Rocketman: i miss them so fuckign bad, i missed you so fuckign bad. The cake made that so much worse. They forgot i couln’t have lactose so I fed my slice to the dog while they weren’t lookign because i didn’t want to ruin everything. They beat up my bot and i didn’t do anythign because i didn’t want them to claim my bots were the next Hal and now they’re scared of other people and freeze when ppl are around_

_Rocketman: but i got a fuckign cake didn’t i. I got my fuckign cake on my birthday_

Tony’s hands are shaking and his eyes are wet. He sucks in a breath and tries to let it out but it becomes a bitten off sob. He hits the dial button and brings the phone up to his ear, waiting for Rhodey to pick up.

“Tones,” Rhodey says and his voice wavers.

“You’re right,” Tony choked out. “It’s all bullshit. You got your toxic cake, I got my cave and everything is just fucked, isn’t it? They kicked Jason, your baby bot, so hard his chest cracked, and they’ll put your stuff in a trash can bag like you’re not my entire world and I miss you so much. I just want you here. That’s how we planned it, together forever, but we’re not, and we can’t be and that sucks. And I’m so scared of going to sleep because when I look around I’m in the desert and Yinsen is dead or I’m looking down the barrel of a gun and daring them to shoot! I remember feeling ready for it because I knew I wasn’t getting out of those caves alive. But now I am! And I remember accepting that! And it scares me! I can remember seeing Howard's face, my dad’s face, get shot off in front of me, all that blood and b-bone.” Tony stuttered off and pushed the memory away. “It’s not fair! What did we do?”

“That’s just it,” Rhodey manages. “Nothing. Everything’s fucked and it’s not our fault, we didn’t do anything but it sucks anyway. I miss them so bad. I just want my dad, I want my mom. I want you.”

“It hurts, Rhodey. My chest, my heart, my lungs, my head. I just want everything to be normal again.”

“It’s never going to be. Isn’t that the fucking cherry on top.”

“Yeah,” Tony ways weakly, sniffing and wiping his face off. “I want to go home. I don’t belong here. Ted hates me, Ken is trying to be my dad, Britney is hovering like a drone. I want people, I want people that understand like you do, but they’re doing it wrong and judging my stuff and my bots and everything and it’s like I’m something different.”

“I know. I just want to grow up so I can leave. I want to have sleepovers with you and watch movies and argue about science and eat food I can eat and invent and talk with you face to face, not just over a phone or a screen. I want my bots to be safe and happy.”

“I want us to be safe and happy,” Tony says quietly. “I’m not happy here. You make me happy. Oh, god, that’s so gay.”

Rhodey laughs wetly. “Yeah. No homo though.”

Tony laughs too, briefly. “Yeah, but we were made for each other. We were made to be best friends, platonic partners, and it hurts to be away from you. And it hurts that you’re not safe or happy.”

“Same here. But we’ve got to stay strong, right? That’s what they say in the movies. We’ll be eighteen eventually and we can leave this shit all behind.”

“I want to leave it now,” Tony admits. “I don’t want more of this. I don’t want to keep feeling misplaced and secondary.”

“Yeah.” Silence filled the line. “It all sucks, but we’re still here, aren’t we? All this shit, and we’re still okay. We have each other, and our bots, and JARVIS. That’s a good start,” Rhodey says.

“We’re smart, we can figure out anything,” Tony agreed.

Rhodey started humming and Tony recognized the tune, already smiling. _“If you ever find yourself stuck in the middle of the sea~ I'll sail the world~ to find you,”_ Rhodey sang.

 _“If you ever find yourself lost in the dark and you can't see~ I'll be the light~ to guide you,”_ Tony says and laughs. “Guess it’s really true now, you wouldn’t believe how bright the arc is.” Rhodey let out a wet laugh.

They started the chorus together, the melody and words memorized long ago. _“Find out what we're made of~ when we are called to help our friends in need~. You can count on me like one, two, three, I'll be there. And I know when I need it I can count on you like four, three, two, you'll be there. 'Cause that's what friends are supposed to do, oh yeah~.”_

 _“If you're tossin' and you're turnin'~ and you just can't fall asleep~ I'll sing a song beside you,”_ Rhodey tells him.

 _“And if you ever forget how much you really mean to me~ every day I will remind you,”_ Tony replies.

_“Find out what we're made of~ when we are called to help our friends in need. You can count on me like one, two, three, I'll be there. And I know when I need it I can count on you like four, three, two, you'll be there. 'Cause that's what friends are supposed to do, oh yeah~._

_“You'll always have my shoulder when you cry. I'll never let go, never say goodbye~. You know you can count on me like one, two, three, I'll be there. And I know when I need it I can count on you like four, three, two, you'll be there. 'Cause that's what friends are supposed to do, oh yeah._

_“You can count on me 'cause I can count on you,”_ they finish.

“I missed that song,” Tony says.

“I missed you,” Rhodey says earnestly and shivers. “Brr! I need to go inside soon. It’s stormy out right now. I, uh, I’ve been living in a shed at the junkyard, had to leave so I don’t wake up my bots.”

That made so much more sense, now that Tony remembered all their calls. “I locked myself in my room.”

“What a pair we are.”

“We’re perfect,” Tony tells him.

“True. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You need to sleep too. And it’s apparently stormy where you are.” Tony paused and grinned. “How are your seventy polo shirts?”

Rhoddy huffed. “I’ll never stop getting shit for that, will I?”

“Never.”

They hang up soon after.

Tony looks around his room. JARVIS is interacting with the bots in his holographic form, playing catch with socks to keep them busy. “Hey, J, email Rhodey the blueprints for my fancy pacemaker, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony hesitates and then adds. “Send him my arc stats too. He should know how I’m doing as well.”

Tony spent some time playing with the bots, cleaning up the scattered tools he left behind, and putting his stuff away. From there, he got to work on the designs for his armor again. Tony cracked his neck, stretched his hands, and got to work. Rhodey’s, his own, both needed to be perfect. Slim, efficient, fitting, sturdy. He needed advanced weapons systems with small but powerful weapons, explosives, maybe the laser technology Rhodey developed. The undersuits suits needed to be manufactured as well so he had JARVIS order the materials for that. He hummed after a while. “What I need, is a way to conceal rocket boots.”

“You have time, sir. You can figure it out tomorrow, as well as working on these designs. I would recommend sleeping, or at least calming down enough to sleep,” JARVIS advised from the computer.

Tony narrowed his eyes at the JARVIS Box.

“If you sleep, I will order all the parts and materials we need to start assembly of the armors and order testing equipment for what you create.”

JARVIS was one hell of a negotiator.

To ‘calm down,’ Tony watched some youtube videos, mostly about animals because Dum-E and Butterfingers loved those. U wasn’t interested. She started organizing Tony’s socks by color and size.

After seeing a video of a cat with a ramp up into a bed so it could cuddle with its owners despite bad joints, Tony had an idea. With what he had, he fashioned a ramp that Dum-E, Butterfingers, and U could use. Dum-E squealed and shot right up it, landing sideways and thrashing around in the blankets until he got himself tangled. Butterfingers followed in a similar fashion and U went slowly, rounding the side carefully, away from the tangle of bots.

Dum-E poked his head (camera?) out and squealed in joy.

Tony laughed. “Hey, you need to be untangled, buddy?”

Dum-E shook his claw and tapped the bed.

“You want me to sleep too?”

Dum-E nodded. U agreed with a beep.

“Alright,” Tony allowed. “I’ll go to bed tonight. But I gotta brush my teeth and get pajamas on so give me a minute.”

After preparing for bedtime, he left one light on, the desk light (maybe if he woke up screaming, he would see the light and realize he wasn’t in the cave faster? Hypothesis, go.) and snuggled up in the blankets. Tony dragged Dum-E and U upward so he could wrap an arm around each bot. Butterfingers took the spot up near Tony’s head, close to the edge.

“You’re going to fall off,” Tony warned.

Butterfingers made an uncaring noise and Tony urged JARVIS to come join them and fit somewhere. JARVIS’s holographic form came into existence and he examined the bed, ending up climbing over Tony and sitting against the headboard with his legs out straight against Tony’s arm. Tony hummed.

“Play me something soft,” he requested and sighed when JARVIS put on _Ave Maria_.

“Good pick,” he mumbled at the ceiling.

“Get some sleep, sir.”

* * *

_Tony’s trying desperately to lead his father out of the technical conference at Bern. Howard managed to get through half of his lecture about integrated circuits, but then swayed a bit too much for Tony’s liking and he had to get up on the stage just in time to prevent him from falling over. Tony humorously explained how his father had been sick the last few days but wanted to go to the conference so much he insisted despite having the stomach bug._

_He said he father practiced the speech so much Tony knew it word for word and finished for him as security led Howard off stage to try to pour some coffee into him. Tony honestly had no idea what the rest of Howard's speech was and just explained everything he knew, which was just as good if not better._

_He was so close to getting Howard out. The party was getting into swing and providing cover, people were drinking, so the sway looked more natural too. He was so close. Then a pair of men walk over and fuck up every bit of his hard work._

_“Mister Stark?” the middle eastern man starts, offering his hand. “Ho Yinsen.”_

_Howard takes it and shakes almost automatically. “So I finally met a man called Ho,” he marvels._

_Tony facepalms. “Howa- dad that’s rude,” he hisses._

_“I would like to introduce you to our guest, Dr. Wu,” Yinsen says, gesturing and clearly deciding not to try to start an argument._

_Howard again shakes his hand. “You’re a heart doctor. I wish I had a dame on my arm instead of my kid. I’ve been told I have a heart stopping personality.”_

_That made some semblance of sense and it hurt. Howard lists to the side and Tony swears violently, scrambling to pull him back up._

_Howard managed to look around and whistle. “Like you, pretty lady,” he said to a woman near them. She turned to glance at them and Howard’s leer, how he’s failing to keep upright to the side and Tony is struggling to keep him steady._

_“Charmed,” she said dryly._

_“You might want to sanitize your hands,” Tony says. “My dad has the stomach bug.”_

_“Tha’s right,” Howard says, slurring a bit, and Tony doesn’t even blink as he grabs the back of Howard's head and steers him right over to the trashcan to throw up._

_“He’s not feeling well,” Tony says, projecting a hint into his voice. “I’m going to get him to our hotel room.”_

_A man with a cane and ridiculous glasses limped over, looking nervous and hesitant bold, but before he could speak Tony cut him off. “If you try to grab him for a minute, the only thing he’ll accomplish is throwing up on you. I’m sorry. Everyone can schedule an appointment at Stark Industries HQ in Malibu during regular work hours if you have something you want to discuss,” Tony recites, pulling him back up by the hair on his head and pushing him toward the door. “I need to get my father back to the room.”_

_“Can I- just, please! Mr. Stark?”_

_“Whadya want?” Howard asked, annoyed and wiping off his mouth_

_“I’m putting a proposal together, for a privately funded think tank called Advanced Idea Mechanics-” the guy started, holding out a business card._

_“Unless you’re thinking about weapons, I’m not interested,” Howard says, taking a card and immediately tossing it to the side. Tony uses his functioning reflexes and snatches it out of the air. He glances at it and hands it back apologetically._

_“Sorry. He’s not feeling well.”_

_He actually makes it to the elevator before Howard passes out._

_From there, Tony check the halls and pulls Howard up on his shoulders to shakily wobble down the hall to their room. He swiped the card into the door and pushes it open when it unlocks. Tony dumps his dad in the bed and wipes his own forehead. He checks Howard’s pulse and grabs one of Howard’s many cans of beer off the floor and puts it close to the man’s mouth. He makes sure Howard’s breathing is normal and steady, not slow or irregular, and upon finding the man just drunk as all hell, turns and leaves._

_He grabs his bag and the second access card before opening the door. Yinsen is standing then, hand raised as if to knock._

_“I-” Yinsen starts. “I, um, saw your father drop this.” Yinsen holds up Howard’s phone and Tony takes it._

_“Thank you,” he says. He throws at the unconscious man, hitting Howard in the crotch. He doesn’t feel bad when Howard groans and curls in on himself. Tony steps out and closes the door behind them._

_“Where are you going?”_

_“Howard always forgets to check into a room with two beds, so I always make sure to reserve another for myself. I’m actually up on the top floor. I’ve heard there’s an excellent view and a jacuzzi up top.”_

_“I… I was initially planning to ask Mr. Stark to speak with me about some theories in engineering I had, to speak with an engineering genius in his fields, but I would certainly enjoy speaking with you, if you’d rather kill time and discuss engineering instead of turning in,” Yinsen offered. “Maya Hansen, the woman you met a few minutes ago, offered her room to discuss our respective projects and watch the fireworks or the Ball Drop, but she was caught in conversation by the other gentleman and told me to meet her there instead of joining me now.”_

_“Huh,” Tony said. Honestly, he’d like to see the fireworks, and he wasn’t exactly tired. Now that Howard was passed out, he didn’t have a whole lot on his hands… “Alright. I’ll give it a shot.”_

_They walk for a minute in silence before Yinsen breaks the silence._

_“Your portion of the speech on integrated circuits was marvelous and comprehensive,” Yinsen says._

_Tony hesitates. “Really?” it comes out meek and small and he feels pathetic for it but it’s the only praise he’s gotten in years, and-_

_“Much better than your fathers,” Yinsen confirms._

_“You could tell the difference?”_

_“Yes. You have different styles of speech, besides the fact that your father managed to give only half a rather disjointed speech on integrated circuits intoxicated to oblivion.”_

_Tony smiles because a warm feeling fills his chest. “Thanks.” His voice cracks. Pathetic. Yinsen is just a guy, Tony is about to cry because some stranger said his speech was good._

_“I must ask, however. Your father… Why do you continue to see after him like this? Why not let him embarrass himself? Why not be put in a better environment?”_

_“I didn’t spend five years taking care of that asshole and keeping him out of the media for him to ruin the family name, embarrass me, and make him think I’m not worthy of the company,” Tony said tightly. “I have big reform plans for my company. Clean energy, electronics, medical tech, and all I have to do is wait for him to get sober, get old, or die. I never said this, I’ll deny it if you do,” he adds. Yinsen gives him a sad look and Tony glares down the hall. “I don’t need your pity.”_

_“It’s not pity, Anthony. I’m just sad, seeing a boy my son’s age be a better adult than a man older than myself.”_

_Tony pauses. “It’s actually Antonio. But please, call me Tony,” he says, and glances at the man._

_Yinsen smiles. “Of course, Tony. Now, Miss Hansen expressed interest in regenerative biology, I also have some interest in medical engineering, but what about you? What are your interests?”_

_“I’m working on developing an advanced fully sentient, sapient AI,” Tony admits. “A few months ago I made a bit of a breakthrough, I’ve built a handful of helper robots that pass the Turing Test, but I’m extending my research in the subject to improve my coding and development of my new AI system.”_

_“Oh?” Yinsen says, fascinated._

_“Yeah, because of it I had to do a lot of studies into the brain and some biological stuff, so I might understand a thing or two about Miss Hansen’s project. If it has any mechanical part at all, I can always make a suggestion.”_

_A half hour later, when Yinsen accidentally pulls a stem off of Maya’s plan and it bursts into flames, Tony reminds him to not stick his hands into sensitive places._

_The irony wouldn’t hit him for a few years._

* * *

“Look, I’m not saying I’m fucked up,” Tony tells JARVIS as he sits on the bucket to wipe himself off with a washcloth a few days later. He had brought the half-finished vambrace he had been working on into the garage, so Jay’s form was intangible, but his presence helped. “I’m just saying that I’ve got shit wrong with me. This? I am sitting in a cold ass garage to wipe my buck ass nude body off with a washcloth because I can’t stand the sight of bathtubs.”

“You are a very smart boy, sir,” JARVIS said as Tony eyes his hairy legs in utter disgust and considered the use of Nair. “Surely you knew something like PTSD could be a possibility.”

“Well, yeah, but like… I dunno. I probably have a fucked up view of PTSD based off movies and shit. I never considered the possibility that I’d have it, really. I thought I’d just be, I don’t know, skittish? But I’m not the skittish type. I am a Tesla damned _queen_ and we all know it. But fuck if I know, I’m fourteen. Maybe I thought it would just be nightmares, mostly. Fear of tubs is not something I need on a resume. They’re _tubs_. I used to love hot tubs, jacuzzis. That one president had a tub that could fit four grown men and I can’t stand the sight of one that could fit one skinny ass twink. Or this bucket. The only reason I’m sitting on it is so I don’t have to look at it.”

“If you want me to point out more things that I notice, I have noticed that you are partially isolating yourself,” JARVIS said helpfully. “The Ashten's do seem to care and they are acting as your guardians.”

“I know but you haven’t really met them. They look at me funny. It gets worse every time I tell them about what happened or why I can’t do something or that I’m busy. Ken keeps trying to be my fucking parent. I didn’t come here because I want a new set of parents, I came here because the law said people have to be my guardians.”

“I see… Well, Mister Rhodes cares for your greatly. I’ll admit he is the exception to your chosen isolation. Also, I am always available to you, sir.”

“Thanks, buddy. I can’t imagine another AI that I’d like to wash my junk in front of.”

“Gross, sir,” JARVIS deadpanned.

“Okay, but you have to admit, it is weird that I, a fourteen year old teen, is in this garage naked with what appears to be a, what, thirty five to forty year old man?”

JARVIS sighed and changed his form into…

“I don't know… if a cat is any better.”

“I’m experimenting,” JARVIS said in the form of a pure white shorthair cat with bright blue eyes, crouching into loaf form. “Better a cat than a man, I presume.”

“Sure.”

JARVIS pauses. “Technically speaking, I don’t actually care about human genitalia, but I seem to have adopted human social standards. I do not have genitalia. Humans do. Humans think seeing other human genitalia outside of sexual situations is odd. I pretend that I play by these unspoken rules.”

“I mean, that makes sense,” Tony admitted. Then he beamed. “But! You learning and utilizing human social standards is a good thing! It proves you’re human, or at least, living in a sense!”

“This is true, but we both knew that fact already.”

“Yeah, but like… evidence. J? Order me Nair specifically for leg use. And some of my nice organic lotion. Nair is like all chemical and this skin has to stay looking nice.”

JARVIS sighed. It was _very_ strange to hear a cat sigh like a man.

Tony dressed, put the half-finished vambrace on his arm, and went back inside. He was planning to go to his room and working on more specs or various things, reorganize the file on assistance to the Middle East he’d been collaborating on with Doctors Without Borders as well as several other organizations, maybe facetime Rhodey, but was quickly waylaid.

Brittany put her hand on her hip and blocked his door. “I think you should play outside for a little while,” she explained. “You’ve been here for over a week now, but I haven’t seen you play outside once!”

“That is a gross exaggeration,” Tony claimed, pointing at the ceiling. “And I have things I need to work on-”

“Fine, even so, you haven’t been outside except to wash off in the garage or go to wherever you disappear off to. Go… bounce on the trampoline, play some soccer, go _play_ ,” she stressed and he was promptly herded back outside, this time with shoes and socks.

Tony considered the yard.

“Well. Uh. It’s a yard.”

“Your keen eye for observation as amazing as ever, sir,” JARVIS remarked, taking form beside Tony.

“Hush, you.”

“You’re not my dad,” JARVIS said in a surprisingly whiney voice and blew an elongated raspberry as he jumped off the porch and zipped across the lawn. He was surprisingly quick.

Tony was moderately stunned. “H- hey, _torna qui_!”

“Na na na na na na, you can’t catch me!” JARVIS jeered, turning around and bring up moose horns with his hands.

_“Qual'è il tuo problema?!”_

“If you’re not going to play outside, then I will!” JARVIS called back to him, still playing keep away.

“JARVIS! Oof!” Tony slid on some loose dirt and wet grass, landing on his side and then scrambling back up to chase after his rogue AI. _“Bene! Bene! Giocherò nel cortile! Ritorno!”_

Jarvis stopped suddenly and leaned forward to observe something in the garden.

Tony caught up and pants for a second. _“Che cos’e?”_

“A ladybug,” JARVIS reported and brought his right arm out to point. “It is interesting to be able to see nature this close. I think I quite like this holographic form.”

 _“Quello è buono,”_ Tony praised, he coughed and turned the words around in his mouth. Tony looked around. “Um, why don’t we try the trampoline?”

“I don’t have any weight, but I’ll watch,” JARVIS offered.

Tony climbed up onto the trampoline, velcroing the entrance shut again, and standing up shakily. Tony bounced, grinning at the height he managed and the soft impact. It was fun, to be that high up from a simple jump. He bounced and landed on his back, hopping back up onto his feet. Tony eventually slowed to a stop and them dropped to his knees, breathless and grinning as he got on JARVIS’s level.

“That’s not too bad,” he told JARVIS.

“I’m glad,” JARVIS said with a smile.

Tony kept jumping, doing flips and landing flat on his back only to pop back up onto his feet quickly. It really is fun. Tony doesn’t know why he didn’t invest in this before. He tries to do a backflip, fails to complete a flip, and knees himself in the face when he hits the surface. Swearing and rubbing his forehead, he realizes why. JARVIS is chuckling. Tony shoots him a betrayed glanced and, grumbling, he crawls out of the tent and puts his shoes back on.

He decides to play soccer with JARVIS. He doesn’t know any rules past kick the ball into the goal, so that’s what he does. JARVIS is, theoretically, a superior soccer player. Likely because he knows the rules, can access footage of players and knows what he’s doing.

However…

Tony kicks the ball at the goal, weaker than he’d prefer, and JARVIS tracks it as he stands in front of the goal. It rolls steadily through his feet and lower legs and JARVIS looks back up at Tony with a raised eyebrow, hands stuffed in his pocket.

“Okay, maybe this wasn’t a fair game to play.”

“No, really?” JARVIS asks rhetorically.

Tony digs around in the baskets of toys for a while, discarding a jump rope, a baseball, a basketball, rackets and shuttlecocks (ha), until he finds some roller skates and yanks them out. They look too big for Ted, so likely never used before.

Tony sits down and puts them on, figuring why the hell not.

JARVIS walks over as Tony shakily stands up. “J, show me how these things are used?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” JARVIS says. His feet shimmer and he gets a bit taller as holographic skates appear.

“Is that necessary?”

“I show by example,” JARVIS claims and starts moving, one foot after the other. Tony hesitantly tries it out, eventually making his way down the driveway and onto the sidewalk as JARVIS rolls along beside him.

“Hey, I like this,” Tony said. “More fun than walking, less scary than riding a skateboard.”

“Ice skating is similar when winter comes,” JARVIS added.

“Four seasons kind of thing. I like it.” He considered the roller blades. “These would be perfect for the rocket boots! They’re big enough, a strange color wouldn’t attract too much attention, and it would make for faster ground travel with that weight.”

“Smart idea, sir.”

They kept rolling for a while.

“Hey, Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“How do I stop?”

* * *

Sporting some grass stains from stopping too quickly and bailing into a yard, Tony walked back in the house. JARVIS stopped projecting himself, so he was once again alone.

“I played! In the outernet! I mean, outside!” he called into the house, turning for maximum projection. Tony turns and suddenly Britney is there and Tony ducks away hands in front of his face. “Tesla fuck! Where did you come from?”

“The living room,” she says slowly and looks him up and down. “I see you had fun,” she points at his green knees. Then she stares at the vambrace. “Um. What’s…”

“That’s, uh, an invention of mine,” Tony explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a bracelet that works like a computer. It’s actually pretty cool, it’s got projection capabilities, real amazing processing power, and runs on renewable energy.”

Britney gives him a look but clearly dismisses the topic. “Alright, you’re free to go.”

Tony ducks into his room and locks the door.

* * *

_Tony jerks awake, his chest stinging and on fire, like it was being stabbed by hot blades. He feels cold and achy and downright terrible._

_He coughs, feeling something wrong in his throat and stuck up his nose. It burns too and he can’t get a really good breath in so he instinctively pulls whatever’s in his nose out. It’s long and it hurts worse coming out, but he’s committed and it finally comes out with a gross liquid sound._

_He tries to twist to grab a glass of water to make the feeling die down, but something tugs at his chest an sends a burst of pain down to his toes. He breathes out hard and puts his hand over the source of the pain._

_His hand hits something numb, cold, and metal and the pain flashes again, making him moan. His hand followed wires and touches a car battery. He looks down at bloody bandages and feels sick. He’s got a car battery attached to his chest._

_“Please, relax,” a voice desperately urges._

_Tony seeks out the voice and spots a man sitting on his bed. “Yinsen?” he croaks._

* * *

A week after Tony had spoken with Rhodey over the phone, two weeks since he arrived at the foster home, he gets a letter. Quick to snatch the item out of the hands of Ken, Tony backed his ass up to his room, locking the door after him before sitting on the bed. It was from Rhodey, that much was clear, and heavier than he expected a letter to be. Something inside slid around as Tony held it, and he opened it by tearing one side off completely.

He slid the contents into his hand and blinked at the watch and ring he now held.

 _Proposing already?_ Tony thinks nonsensically and examines what he is holding.

The watch was electronic and when Tony turned it on he easily flipped through the apps Rhodey programmed it with. Date and time, internet, a phone, and a set of vitals. It took Tony a second to realize that those were Rhodey’s. He gave his heartbeats back when Tony gave his. That’s so sweet! Rhodey is a sweetheart, a very thoughtful romantic.

Next, after Tony put on his new favorite watch, which was perfectly gender neutral, thicker than a woman’s band and slimmer than a man’s, he investigated the ring. It was neat and tidy beside an odd switch on the side, with an inscription, likely by Rhodey’s laser rig, reading, “The First Duty of Love is to Listen” A little confused, Tony eventually noticed the dual speaker microphone system built into it.

“Oh, that’s clever,” Tony remarked. “I love it.”

He put the ring on his left index finger and looked at it in the light, the abacus on his ring finger shining alongside it. He turned it on and considered his words.

“Thank you,” he said to it. “It means a lot to be able to speak to you like this.”

There was a second of silence and Tony wondered if Rhodey’s was active or he heard Tony’s voice at all.

“It means to world to me,” the reply came, crisp and clear despite the distance. Tony reckoned that the watch was the source of the direct link, being able to connect to satellites and the internet, and he smiled. “If you ever need me, just turn on the ring. I’ve got it linked to my MIT ring.”

“Thank you,” Tony said softly.

“It wasn’t a problem at all.”

* * *

The Fourth of July sucked. Tony figured that out very quickly. They had a park about three blocks away and were firing fireworks from there, so the family watched from their yard, a big BBQ celebration thing with some family and friends. The older generations eyed Tony in his crop top and shorts with his jacket tied around his waist like he was the embodiment of sin, but they didn’t comment.

Tony was stuck in a corner with a soda and wearing his sunglasses despite it being dark out. It let him ignore everybody else except for his drink.

He’d been spending most of his time working on the suit parts, making it piece by piece during the day and testing out what he engineered. So far, he finished both vambraces, both of which worked and knocked him on his ass the first time he tested the repulsor built into it. Not too bad for working on those for only about six days. The rest of it would take a lot longer, but the point stood that he was making good progress. Stan was his permanent driver and he was a nice person to chat with about random things as he came and went. Stan was a pretty strange guy though. Seemed to know a lot more than he should about things, not phased by others.

Well. He always had Rhodey. He pushed his glasses up and pulled out his phone.

_Milliondollerbaby: hey, hows ur fourth_

_Rocketman: pretty boring actually, u?_

_Milliondollerbaby: waiting for firework show in front yard w/ fosters and co_

_Rocketman: send me pics, urs might be better than mine_

Tony meant to, he honestly did, but when the first piercing whistle went through the air, Tony’s heart clenched and the boom shook him to the core. You know that feeling you get when a firework goes off, how you can feel it in your chest? The pressure, the bone rattling sensation?

The explosion knocked Tony right back into Afghanistan, that moment when the bomb his dad designed four years prior landed right next to him. The shock spread from his reactor out, waking him right the fuck up. The explosion that went through his chest, made his ears ring, and sent pain through his torso as blood welled to the surface and Tony took one last desperate look at his stunned father as his vision blacked out.

Tony might be imagining it, but he could feel the shrapnel vibrate with the explosion and the arc-reactor actually did, as it was attached to his rips and what was left of his sternum.

He ran for cover, ducking against bomb fire, hearing the rat-tat-tat of the automatic weapons around him as he shot to his room and slid under the bed, hands clamped over his ears as his heart raced. He was behind the rock with his dad, watching him try to send a text to Obi, to anyone.

The thud of the bomb, two pairs of matching eyes shooting over to look and Tony scrambling up just in time to take the brunt of it. Flying through the air, landing heavily on his back and feeling jagged pain split him down the middle. The blood under his hands, spouting from the holes in his bulletproof vest, his own invention that didn’t work against high proof explosions.

Howard might love his weapons, but Tony always went defense first and foremost. Not that it did him any good. Tony shrank against more shuddering booms, head hurting with how hard he was putting his hands against his ears.

He felt pressure against his side and his eyes shot open to see the Butterfingers offering him some noise canceling headphones and some earbuds.

Tony’s hands shook as he put the earbuds in his ears and put the headphones over his ears. Sounds dulled instantly and became a thing of another realm when he started blasting AC/DC into his ears. Back in Black, his favorite. He could still feel the heart stopping vibrations in the air, but it meant the world that he couldn’t hear them.

Dum-E and U came over to sit in the space made by Tony curling up, meaning right in front of his stomach, to play with a mini etch-a-sketch, periodically glancing over at Tony or hitting each other. JARVIS took form and mostly checked on Tony and brought him snacks, like these really good chocolate covered blueberries.

He could almost forget about the shit show happening outside.

But then a big one exploded, or several medium ones right in a row, and Tony shoved himself back against a wall and let out a shaky breath. He stayed there even after he stopped feeling the thundering booms rip through the air. It was a nice enough space, Tony reasoned. The floor had this new blue carpet, and he had food and his bots and some sick jams, so yeah, this space was nice. He felt like he was trying to disillusion himself, but he ignored the rational part of his mind and mournfully ate the last of his blueberries.

After a while, he saw the door open and a pair of feet walk in. By the look of it, it was Ken. After a second, they moved oddly and knees hit the ground, then hands. Tony soon after found himself looking back at Ken, who had an odd expression on his face. Tony took the headphones and earbuds out.

“Hey,” he said casually, making sure his voice was even as he could make it.

“Aunt Judy said you took off like a bat outta hell,” Ken said. “And now you’re shoved under your bed. Care to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Eh,” Tony said. “You know. Explosions. Bombs. Stuff, it’s whatever.”

“So are you going to come out?” Ken furthered.

Tony’s immediate instincts screamed no, that he should stay under cover until he’s sure the bombardment was over with and there weren’t any active bombs lying around, so he shrugged. “Actually, I’m good. I have a snack, and Dum-E and U are making something on an etch-a-sketch and don’t wanna move and disturb them. Speaking of which, Dum-E, U, what are you drawing?”

Dum-E beeped at him strongly.

“It’s not done?” The pair made a confirmation beep and turned back to the wheels. Tony watched them move a few more times, saw them pull back to make sure it was good and then nod at each other. They reversed into Tony’s stomach and U tugged at a part of Tony’s shirt. “Okay, now?”

Dum-E beeped and Tony grabbed the sketch, looking at it. It was a picture of Tony at the piano back at the mansion. “Aw, this is really good you guys. When did you see me playing the piano?”

Dum-E whirled.

“A while ago? Fair enough.” Tony shows Ken. “Look at what my AI made! Isn’t it brilliant? I need to take a picture. Put it up on the wall. I feel like a proud parent.”

Ken looked confused. “So you’re not coming out?”

“I mean, I’m already out. Super pansexual, genderfluid at the best of times.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Tony shrugged. “Eh. Under the bed is as under the bed do.”

Ken gives him a weird look.

JARVIS pipes up from the desk. “Mr. Ashten, I do believe your line of questioning isn’t going to convince Sir to exit the safety of the space under his bed. If you would please remove yourself from the premises, I would be very grateful and refrain from resorting to physically convincing you to leave.”

Ken gave Tony’s computer a weird look and then got up and left.

_Milliondollerbaby: hey, lol, had a panic attack or flashback of sth and couldn’t get video bc i was freaking out under my bed, sry_

_Rocketman: that really isn’t something you start out by saying ‘hey, lol’ with, but that's fine my dude hope u feel better. Do u need to talk about it?_

_Milliondollerbaby: id rather not_

_Rocketman: of course, whatever you decide_

* * *

Tony found himself outside slightly more than he had been, practicing on the roller blades each morning until he’s proficient. He’s started skating for about an hour each day before calling Stan to pick him up to go to the warehouse to work. Three weeks since the fourth, he’s made more progress with the boots, bringing them practically to completion barring any adjustment following the flight tests. Tony, feeling gender just fucking absent without leave that specific day, finds themself out of pants, mentally shrugs, and pulls on some white leggings and one of their skirts, a short light blue one with sunflowers. Tony picks through his shirts and finds something that matches well, a white v-neck t-shirt with yellow stitching, and pulls on some socks.

Ken stares as he walks past and chokes on his coffee.

“You’re wearing that?” he asks, pleading or annoyed or something. “Of all the things, a skirt? I can understand shorts and crop tops, but a _woman’s skirt_?”

“Yep,” Tony said, unperturbed. “And I look better in it then some women,” Tony says as they open the door. “Bye!”

Tony smooths down the skirt as they descend the steps. It wasn’t the first time something like that happened. In fact, at first, Tony lived for those comments, just to rip into whoever said them. He liked challenging people and getting reactions out of them to prove their reliance on gender stereotypes and that they were crappy people, but in the end Tony was a fashionista. They loved looking good. That being, they loved the fashion that women rocked, with neat skirts and overalls with one side undone and crop tops and all the colorful and creative designs… Men's clothing was so boring. Even suits were dull. They were plain black and white, though some exceptions drew his eye, especially things with brilliant floral embroidery or in flashy patterns. Janelle Monae’s outfit for the Grammys in 2013 was brilliant.

It was just really nice to wear something designed to look pretty. All he had to do was throw it together in a way that made him look fantastic. The right leggings, the right skirt, the right shirt, a nice jacket and he was perfection.

And it made Tony look like a hipster, but at least they were a stylish hipster. Plus, skirts were so _comfortable_. Based on genitalia structure alone, science says that men should wear skirts and women should wear pants and Tony was inclined to agree. Tony was also a proponent of pants because everybody likes a comfortable pair of jeans, but he thinks men would benefit from wearing a skirt every now and then. Your dick just feels free, no more zipper fear.

Tony sits on the bottom step and laces up the rollerblades.

After Tony’s usual rounds, they go back to the house, pick up JARVIS and the computer, and gets a ride to the warehouse. Tony’s planning on testing the flight capability of the rocket boots today, so they’re excited.

On the drive over, with JARVIS and his computer beside them, Tony watched the scenery pass.

“So,” Stan said. “What’s your plan for the day, huh? Beating up terrorists? Punching Nazis? Fighting bad guys? Stopping alien invasions?”

“You are a very interesting old man, Stan,” Tony remarked.

“Must be doin’ that later than,” Stan continued absently. “Y’want me to stop anywhere? I could go for some lunch. Don’t have to pay,” he said quickly. “I have a twenty. But if you want me to get something for yourself I want in.”

“I can be convinced. What are you up for?”

“New Panda Express opened up on the way,” Stan offered. “Drive thru.”

“Sounds good, let’s hit it.”

Thirty minutes later, Tony had Chinese fast food and was working on putting his boots on in his warehouse. His vambraces, completed, were already on their arms, so Tony was ready to start testing the rocket capacities of the boots.

Tony quickly ate a few sweet and sour chicken pieces and walked over to the testing pad Tony and JARVIS had set up yesterday. Tony has, of course, changed into the undersuit JARVIS manufactured, clinging tightly to their skin and protecting them, and stood in the center of the area. “Okay. Let's get this going. JARVIS?”

“All systems ready,” JARVIS said, sitting at the desk in his holographic form. “Everything is connected to the reactor and maintaining steady energy levels.”

“Excellent.” Tony flicked their fingers out and the vambraces shifted into gauntlets, metal twisting over Tony’s fingers in a buttery smooth slide. The energy focus component fit snugly in their palms and whirled to life. “Filming?”

JARVIS nodded and then grabbed something from a pile and walked over, clipping a helmet over Tony’s head. Tony gave him a look, but JARVIS shrugged. Tony rolled their eyes and cleared their throat.

“Okay, let’s do this. Starting back half a meter from the center, JARVIS is on camera duty and fire safety, be glad I bought a fire extinguisher, but my designs are perfect so it probably won't see too much use. Okay, we’ll start off nice and easy, see if ten percent thrust capacity can achieve lift. Ready?”

JARVIS nodded.

“Kay, in three… two… one.”

Tony blasted themself halfway across the warehouse before JARVIS cut power to the armor components. Tony was glad JARVIS put the helmet on him because the second thing Tony hit on the floor, other than their armored knees, was their head. The helmet cracked down the center but managed to save his skull.

Laying on the floor, JARVIS crouching next to them, Tony cleared their throat. “Okay, mark that down, next test, we’ll start at three percent.”

“Sir,” JARVIS says, aghast. “Please focus. Follow my finger.”

“I don’t have a concussion.”

 _“I’ll be the judge of that!”_ JARVIS protested.

“The Ten Rings isn’t going to know what hit them,” Tony muttered, already scheming of ways to blow them up.

“The only thing that will hit the Ten Rings is going to be your arse when you blast yourself off your feet until we actually get this right, sir. Now follow! My! Finger!”

* * *

_Tony watched his father's hands tremble as he worked, cursing when he dropped a tool or had to undo his work to fix it. Withdrawal. Howard was hard at work on the Jericho, ignoring Tony and his advice. And Tony was well and truly pisses, especially to see the empty bottle almost hidden under the table._

_“All it took to get you on their side is a bottle of Jack and two days of waterboarding,” Tony spit in disgust, pain radiating from his chest as he held the car battery connected to his chest. “Sell out. Traitor.”_

_“Shut up, Tony.”_

_“Why should I?!” Tony demanded, opening his arms wide even if it pulled at his chest and hurt so fucking bad. “We’re in a fucking cave in Afghanistan and it’s all your fault! You’re busy making weapons for terrorists in exchange for a fucking bottle of alcohol and I’m supposed to not be fucking pissed? Fuck you!”_

_“Watch your fucking mouth,” Howard growled, spinning around and pointing._

_“I wonder who I fucking got it from,” Tony snapped. “You fucking alcoholic bastard!”_

_“I said watch your mouth, boy!” Howard demanded, standing. “This isn’t my fault and I’m not going to let you say that to my face!”_

_“Don’t call me ‘boy’!”_

_Yinsen desperately tried to cut in. “Maybe we should all relax and keep working. Fighting isn’t going to-”_

_“Shut up!” Howard shouted at him._

_“Hey, don’t fucking talk to Yinsen like that!” Tony said. “You’re such an asshole! He’s trying to help!”_

_“He’s useless to me, like you are!”_

_Tears stung Tony’s eyes but he was furious. “If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead and the Ten Rings would have watched you bumble around like an idiot until they found out you’re just an old useless drunk who can’t function without a bottle and makes sub-par weapons!”_

_Howard smacked him, hard and the slap burned across his cheek. Yinsen makes a startled protesting noise. “I said shut up!”_

_“I kept telling you to stop making weapons!” Tony shouted, standing up and shoving him back. “It fucking ruins everything! Gun violence takes up sixty percent of all murders in the United States, fifty percent of those are with Stark guns because everybody knows they’re the best. Weapons don’t just kill bad guys, Howard!_

_“I said we should focus on clean energy, medicine and medical tech, anything else, I told you over and over, but you just kept making bombs and guns and missiles and look at where he got us! We’re going to die in the cave Howard! I’m already dying! Between your missile and this shit in my chest, I’m dead! Don’t you fucking understand that? You got us here! This is your fault!”_

_Tony threw the nearest object at his dad, glad the wrench hit him in the chest. Howard rubbed the spot, hurt and cursing._

_“And you, you little shit, perfected them!” Howard accused, pointing._

_“Don’t you think I fucking know that? I know! I knew your stuff was going to sell and I didn’t want to see service members die because of the shitty designs you made when you were plastered! We’re not fucking Hammer Tech! I’ve had to pull you out of bushes when you were so drunk you couldn’t walk straight. I’ve been keeping you from killing yourself because of it for years! I’m sick and tired of it! You’re a shitty person and a shittier father! I wish you had this shrapnel in your chest, but I took the bullet for you again! You should be fucking thanking me!”_

_“Thanking you? You’ve been nothing but a disappointment to the Stark name! We build weapons! We always have! We’re good at it, it makes money! The only reason you’re living in a fucking mansion, you spoiled brat, is because of weapon sales!”_

_“I’d rather die in this cave,” Tony snarled. “And I’m fucking going to! You dense motherfucker!”_

_“Mr. Stark,” Yinsen tried and put his hand on Howard's shoulder to keep him from hitting Tony again._

_Howard shoved Yinsen away, making him stumble and fall back into the dirt, scraping his hands._

_Something snapped in Tony and he let out an enraged shout, running full tilt at Howard and jumping up, drop kicking Howard to the best of his ability. They went down in a sprawl and a catfight commenced. They both got in their fair share of punches and scratches, despite Tony only having one hand to use, and by the time Yinsen bodily picked Tony up and hauled him off of Howard, they were spitting mad, blood and bruises were welling on their skin, and a handful of terrorists were shouting at the door._

_Tony was taken from Yinsen by one of them and Tony found himself on his knees in front of the leader of this whole thing, staring down the barrel of a Stark gun, his arms held up by two terrorists._

_He doesn’t even care anymore. He’s pissed and already knows he’s going to die here, so he glares right up into Raza’s eyes and leans forward so the gun pressed into his forehead. He puts every ounce of rage and murderous intent into his look and Raza remains unaffected._

_“No! No! Wait! Don’t!” Howard shouts, and a number of guns point at him as well. There’s a tense moment as Raza considers._

_“Why? The boy attacked you. He is threatening our weapon. We don’t need him.”_

_“I need him,” Howard says, and hesitates. “He knows the Jericho as well as I do. He perfected it. If you want a missile, I need him.”_

_Raza considers and nods. He takes the gun away and motions for his goons to release Tony. They leave soon after and Tony locks eyes with Howard._

_“Now we’re even,” Howard says and turns back to the beginning parts of his missile._

_“Fuck you,” Tony replies and is lead to the other side of the cave by Yinsen to check his chest. Yinsen looks positively spooked, pale and shocked._

_“Are you alright?” Yinsen asks._

_Tony’s chest hurts, but it always hurts, so he shrugs. He’s a little startled when Yinsen hugs him tight. “Chest hurts worse, chest hurts worse!” he wheezes._

_“Sorry,” Yinsen manages, letting go immediately an wiping off his face. “I was just… scared. I didn’t want to watch you die. You remind me too much of my son. I don’t think I could stand seeing it.”_

_“Aw, okay, maybe is it hug time,” Tony said, and put his arm around Yinsen’s shoulder._

_After a moment Yinsen straightens a bit. “You’re ice cold,” he remarks, taking Tony’s freezing hands. Warmth blooms through them as Yinsen kneads his fingers and palm._

_“Yeah, remember? We weren’t able to correct my heart problems with this battery. Then there was waterboarding and it shocking me…”_

_“Hm. That makes me worried about the possibility of hypothermia. Poor heart condition, cold environment, all of these are bad things.”_

_A few moments later, after Yinsen drapes a blanket over Tony’s shoulders, lights out took place. The room plunged into semi-darkness, only the light from a few lanterns. Howard cursed, drank loudly from his bottle, stumbled over to his bed and lay down._

_Yinsen takes Tony’s cold hand again and hums, specs glinting in the low light._

_“There is no fuel for the furnace,” Yinsen remarks. “It will get very cold.”_

_“Whatever.”_

_“I will not see you die in this cave,” Yinsen says fiercely, and went over to his bed, grabbing his blanket and bringing it back. “Lay down.”_

_Tony grumbles and does, letting Yinsen tuck him in. He then lays next to Tony and puts his arm under Tony’s neck like an extra pillow. “Body heat,” he explains briefly._

_Tony would object but holy shit, Yinsen is_ _so warm_ _. Tony twists and turns a bit until he fits against Yinsen better and then closes his eyes, sighing a bit._

Tony wakes up cold and alone, loneliness hitting him hard in the chest. Tony doesn't realize that he’s crying until U tries to wipe off his face and bops him in the nose. Tony lets out a shuddering breath and brings up his left hand, flipping on the speaker.

“Rhodey? You there?”

There's a second of silence.

“Rhodey,” Tony’s voice cracks.

“Hmugh? Tony? That you, honey? What’s up?” Rhodey asks, voice thick with sleep.

“I had- I feel so alone, please, just… I-” Tony coughs to stop himself from sobbing. “I miss him so much.”

“Who? Your dad?”

“No. Yinsen. He saved my life, and he died for me, in those caves, and I miss him.”

“You mentioned him, before. Tones, I’m so sorry that happened to you. I know exactly how you feel thought, you know? It hurts so much, doesn’t it? You have to- have to remember how they loved you. Right? Yinsen must have loved you a whole lot to mean that much to you too.”

“I wanted him to escape with me,” Tony said tearfully. “But he ran out to buy me time and he was shot for it. He deserved better.”

“Yeah. That’s how it is. The people we lose always deserve better. But we can't change what happened, so we have to keep on and make life mean something for us for their sake, wherever they are now.”

“I’m trying,” Tony says. “But it just hurts!”

“And it will always hurt. But we have each other, forever. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

“Thanks, Rhodey,” Tony manages, wiping at his face. “I’m here for you too. We’re- we’re gonna always be together, right?”

“Without a shadow of a doubt.”

* * *

The foster family keeps trying to get him to be more ‘part of the family’ but Tony just… doesn’t want to. They treat him kinda oddly. Britney sees him as glass. Ken kept trying to be his dad and Ted was kind of a jerk.

But… Today, Tony would be taking his armor out on a test flight. After two whole months of work, making it late August, it was finished. Every component, every wire, every system, even the weapons systems, every circuit perfectly in place and worked exactly how it was supposed to. After his first actual flight out, he’ll know what he needs to finish it and get JARVIS to manufacture the final product. His own and Rhodey’s, of course. The whole ride over, Tony was vibrating with excitement. Even Stan could see that.

“Big day for whatever you’re up to, huh?”

“Yep,” Tony replied. “Or big night, as it were.”

“Yeah, I noticed! Had me pick you up late, kid. Startin’ to think you were finally taking a break!”

“As if,” Tony said, laughing.

Stan grinned back at him and before long, he let Tony out out front of his warehouse, waving as he left with his pay. Tony strode in, lights flickering on, and started stripping. He carefully placed his rings and watch on the desk area with his clothes before he pulled on his undersuit and zipped it up to his chin, doing a few stretches before pulling over the chest plate. In the form of a satchel, Tony held it to his chest and engaged the unfolding process, letting it shape over his skin and click in place. It fit perfectly, shaping over his chest like a perfect defensive vest.

He pulled on his boots, letting them move and shift, climbing up his legs until they covered his knees protectively, and then clicked both his vambraces in place and watching them cover his hands in gloves. The helmet closed around his head and the HUD woke up, a brilliant blue in Tony’s vision. He felt the helmet close around the collar of his undersuit, covering every inch of his skin and locking to keep the pressure in the suit and armor at livable levels.

“Jay? You up?”

“For you sir? Always.”

“Start up the virtual walk around,” Tony requested and stood still as he felt his armor shift around him again, testing the flaps, steering devices, maneuverability, making sure nothing caught or needed adjusting.

“Complete, sir.”

Tony grinned. “Do a weather and ATC check, start listening in on ground control.” The HUD shifted and airplanes Tony couldn't see appeared as little specks, data on the other requested inform helpfully standing by in his vision. He started walking towards the other entrance, the massive sliding doors on the other side of the warehouse. Walking with that much metal was slow, so he test activated the rollerblades hidden on the bottoms of his boots and rolled forward cheerfully.

“Sir, perhaps we should complete a few more tests, we’re still not sure exactly what heights we can reach with-”

“Nope,” Tony said, cutting him off as he pushed the doors open. “JARVIS, sometimes you’ve gotta run before you walk.”

He walked back a dozen feet or so and took a deep breath, pushing down his nerves and excitement. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, sir,” JARVIS confirmed.

“Okay, power to thrusters in three, two, one.” Tony lifted off the ground, his boots and repulsors working in tandem to keep him perfectly aligned and upright. He looked down at the concrete below him, the blue light from his repulsor boots lighting it up, almost not believing what he was seeing, not believing what he was feeling, the resistance pushing against his legs and knees, the shaky feeling in his core. Tony took a second to appreciate everything he did to get to this point, the hours of work and gallons of coffee, before he leaned forward and shot out into the night like a bullet.

It was… there was no way to explain what he felt. He felt nervous, but he felt whole, as he shot into the sky, as his warehouse got smaller and smaller under him and the light of the city became stars on the ground. All around him was the inky blackness of the night sky, the whole moon shining brightly off his silver armor.

Tony, at first chucking nervously as a fear of heights lit up in his mind, started laughing out loud in pure joy because of this? This was what he was built for. Everything about flying through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour felt right. It felt like the power in his chest directed to his palms and feet blasting him into the night sky felt like his own to use as he wished.

“Fuck yeah!” he shouted, whooping as he spun in the air, wind pushing against him and spurring him on. “Oh, she handles like a _dream_!”

His heart was pounding in his chest, his blood pumping through his veins as a surge of adrenaline shot into his system. “You wanted to know how high we can get, right? Let’s get it done!”

“Sir-?!”

Tony put his hand out in front of him and slowed enough to maneuver so that he was rocketing himself straight up in their air. “What's the SR-71's record?” He asked, pushing the armor up to the next level, minimizing drag and increasing speed.

“The altitude record for fixed-wing flight is eighty five thousand feet, sir,” JARVIS replied nervously.

“Records are made to be broken, _c'mon_!” Tony shouted, climbing through the sky like he was trying to make it to the moon. He was so close, he could see his goal in sight on the HUD, his suit was perfect, he could do it!

“Sir, there is a potentially fatal build-up of ice occurring!” JARVIS warned frantically.

“Keep going! Higher!” Tony shouted in reply. He had to make it, he was committed he was-

Dead in the air, ice creeping over his visor, helmet darkened around him, feeling stiff around the joints and plastered to the undersuit. All his power was cut off and dark, all he could hear was the wind in his ears as he slowed, pushed up only by his velocity now and soon even that would change.

“We're iced up, Jarvis!” he called, knowing it useless. “Fuck!” He twisted and turned as he started falling, breaking the ice off where he could, slamming his fists against his legs to break the ice around them. “Deploy flaps. Jarvis? C'mon, we gotta break the ice!”

Tony swore more as he scraped away the ice on his chest plate with his hands until he could grab the manual flap releases on the side of the chest plates. With a strong twist, he felt more ice break loose, crackling in his ear.

At long last, as the ground got closer and closer, blue power flickered over the screen and Tony got into free fall position as all the programs loaded again with a breakneck speed. Just in time, the thrusters activated and Tony held his hands out to keep himself from falling any further down, narrowly dodging an old broken down gas station in the middle of nowhere.

Tony laughed in relief and whooped in joy just as JARVIS started yelling at him.

 _“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW SCARED THAT MADE ME, ANTONIO EDWARD STARK!?”_ JARVIS shouted in his ears.

Tony started cackling at the fact that JARVIS just _full named him_ and kept laughing as JARVIS chewed him out and took him back to the warehouse to get him out of the suit and run diagnostics. Tony rolled down the stretch of concrete toward his desk area, giggling the whole time as JARVIS ranted on and on about safety and how Tony could have died and more about safety.

JARVIS hacked into the manufacturing rig and took control of Tony’s suit, pushing him over to the rig and letting the claws pull the suit off if him. “Ooh, kinky,” Tony snorted. “Oh, _senpai_!”

“You are a terrible child, you almost fried my circuits with that stunt you think is so funny! Stop that!” JARVIS scolded as Tony fought the way he was manhandled by the rig until he was deposited, sans armor, on the other side. “Now, we are going to fix the icing problem so I don’t have a battery failure when you’re up miles high in the sky!”

Tony cracked up at JARVIS’s tone and sat in the swivel chair he’d purchased a few weeks ago, pushing against the floor so he slid into place beside the desk, looking at the proposed modifications on the screen.

“Well,” Tony said after a second. “The main transducer feels sluggish at plus 40 altitudes,” he says, purposely oblivious. “The whole pressurization is problematic. I'm thinking… icing is a probable factor. JARVIS?”

“You’re powers of observation never fail to surprise me, sir,” JARVIS deadpanned.

“Reconfigure the shell metals,” Tony advised. “Use the gold-titanium alloy from the Seraphim tactical satellite. That should ensure the fuselage integrity while maintaining power-to-weight ratio. Got it?”

“Yes. Shall I render using proposed specifications?”

“Give it to me, Jay,” Tony replied.

JARVIS went to work. “I’ll also put in some modifications to the undersuit, weave in the gold-titanium alloy into the suit to prevent icing as well. The suit is made of multiple layers, so it should hardly be noticeable,” JARVIS mentioned. “It will add a layer of protection and strengthen you, in a way. Make you more resilient.”

“I trust you,” Tony agreed, watching the suit render on the screen and then grimacing at the flashy gold that filled the model.

“Render complete, sir.”

“Uh, well. It's... classy. Flashy. Over the top. Give me a good word.”

“Ostentatious.”

“That’s a very good word.”

JARVIS sighed, and Tony could feel him rolling his eyes. “Yes, what was I thinking? You're usually so discreet.”

Tony, chuckling, looked at the design and felt attached to it, but it needed something to tone it down. “Tell you what... throw a little hot rod red in there.”

JARVIS hummed. “Yes, that shall help you keep a low profile. The render is complete.”

Tony glanced over and saw the changes, how the red molded around the gold, made it look more intimidating than pretentious. He liked how red wrapped around his head and the gold of the face plate stood out, blue eyes staring back at him. He liked the feeling of uneasiness the cold eyes gave him, it would be the feeling those terrorists feel when Tony destroys their weapons and tears apart their organization from the inside.

“I like it. Fabricate it and paint it. Get on Rhodey’s too. He’s not the red and gold type so let's paint his black and grey. He always did like the look of a strike fighter. It will look better with the red-arc design we fiddled with a while ago. Remember that one?”

“Yes, the color filters, I recall. I’ll start assembly now. Estimated completion time is eight hours for both armors in their final stages, and the arc-reactor for Master Rhodes’ suit will require an additional five and we need more palladium. Of course, that’s not counting how we need to actually receive a shipment of the gold titanium alloy you requested,” JARVIS calculated. “Realistically, everything should be completely manufactured by the end of this week.

“Buy what you need, use it, let's get the whole band back together.”

JARVIS paused and Tony waited expectantly. “Sir, can I have permission to modify the undersuits of the armor as I see fit?”

Tony blinked. “You’re asking permission?”

“I’m only asking because I may go through some measures I would disapprove of you using. Additionally, I believe that adding a certain amount of backbone to the undersuit, to increase your general strength while using the suit, can be implemented. An exoskeleton that can provide the force of a hydraulic press, as an example. It wouldn’t add too much weight, in fact, it may help balance your suit better and allow you to travel at greater speeds.”

Tony considered JARVIS’s words. “These… ‘measures’... are you talking about illegal stuff?”

“Possibly. I have the funds to get the materials I require. I’ve been working the stock market a bit and have a decent sum in a few accounts if that is of any concern.”

“I don’t know how I feel about you doing some shady illegal business,” Tony admitted.

“I’d be doing it to keep you safe. It would be better, so that you could carry out your ‘mission,’ sir.”

Tony looked at his computer, dazed by how far JARVIS had come. “I trust you,” Tony said in the end. “Just… keep a low profile. Be careful.”

“Of course sir. I’m doing this to protect you, not endanger you.”

* * *

_“Get him on his knees.”_

_“No, no, please, I can still work, please, please no- no!”_

_“Shoot him.”_

_A bang, a spray of blood and bone and brain. A body falls, disfigured and gradually soaking the dirt with a pool of scarlet as Tony screams and has to be held back by Yinsen as he kicks and shouts and sobs out broken Italian. That life, that history, the last part of Tony’s own family ended with one bullet from a gun of Howard’s own invention. The body’s head rolls a little as it settles, one remaining eye staring blankly at nothing._

_“Bury him in the desert. He’s of no use to us. Now, you two. Assemble my missile quickly, or I’ll put you next to him.”_

* * *

Five days after his first flight, on August 30th, Tony beamed at his warehouse, the completed armors placed on the crates in front of the manufacturing rig, ready for use and folded up in their disguises, bags, skates, and vambraces. Both undersuits were folded neatly though they were more… rigid than they used to be. Tony grabbed his, he could recognize it easily, and unfolded it, looking at the new suit and seeing where the exoskeleton was in the suit, neatly hidden reinforced lengths along his limbs and around his joints. As JARVIS’ designs showed, the material he purchased for the suits, likely on the dark web for all Tony knows, was almost completely vibration absorbent and was hard enough to deflect bullets, even stitched into a suit of experimental fabric and gold titanium thread. The exoskeleton would allow him to lift greater weights and hit harder, should he need to.

“Friday, I’m in love,” he said aloud. “How’d everything run, Jay?”

“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” JARVIS deadpanned. “Though I had to have a man assassinated.”

“You’re so funny,” Tony said as he rolled his eyes, wondering if JARVIS actually had someone assassinated. It was a concerning thought, but JARVIS liked to joke. Tony draped the undersuit back over the crate and clapped his hands, rubbing them together like an excited little fly. “Now,” he says, and he feels the bitterness he’d been pushing down in his chest swell up. “The real fun begins. JARVIS, project the news coming from Afghanistan around me, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony listened to reporters as he stripped and pulled on his undersuit, zipping it up and feeling it conform to his skin, the strength in it, the hidden armor that would keep bullets from injuring him. Fit like a glove. Tony tapped his fingers along the lines of metal and plastic that would provide him support.

“-Gulmira-” of the babble of the reporters, the word stood out and Tony turned his attention to it as he clipped on his vambraces. “-can only be described as a 'descent into Hell' into a modern day heart of darkness. Simple farmers and herders from peaceful villages have been driven from their homes, displaced from their lands by warlords emboldened by a newfound power. Villagers have been forced to take shelter in whatever ways that they can find, in the ruins of other villages or here, in the remnants of the old Soviet smelting plant.”

The footage made that anger in his chest feel like he was burning and he kept his eyes on the screen as his armor’s boots folded up around his calves and covered his knees.

“Recent violence has been attributed to a group of foreign fighters referred to by locals as the Ten Rings. As you can see, these men are heavily armed and on a mission. A mission that can prove fatal to anyone who stands in their way. With no political will or international pressure, there's very little hope for these refugees. Around me, a woman begging for news on her husband who was kidnapped by insurgents, either forced to join their militia-”

Tony can barely stand to listen and his hearing is muffled a bit as his helmet closes around his head.

“-a child's simple question: "Where are my mother and father?" There's very little hope for these refugees, refugees who can only wonder who, if anyone, will help.”

Tony has a mission, then.

“Jay, punch in those coordinates. It’s time to shine.”

The flight was sort of boring, honestly. Sure, his suit could reach Mach 3, and his undersuit was built to help him withstand those speeds, so it was shorter than it had to be, but there was a lot of flying over the open ocean, thousands of miles from the foster house, the safety of his warehouse. But he saw something he hates in that footage, the bombs, the _Jericho_. Being used on innocent civilians, on children, Stark guns, Stark bombs. Rage built in him those hours, and he set his sights on Gulmira. Yinsen’s hometown, the place the man who saved his life came from, where the kids and wife he loved were killed by insurgents.

Tony was going to make them pay for everything.

The sun was shining brightly when he got there, a bright hot ball overhead, watching over the barren land. Towns of rubble passed under him as Tony kept his sights on Gulmira, pushing on faster and faster until he slowed to see from above the havoc the Ten Rings was causing. Bullets and bloodshed in a small town ripped apart by bullet holes and rocked with explosions. A Jericho missile exploded in the distance, sending up dust and screams, and Tony snarled, pushing forward and drawing closer to where he saw the most chaos.

He was able to touch the building tops in seconds and landed harshly on one knee in the streets, right in front of a very familiar face that he hated with all his guts, surrounded by his henchmen. Raza.

The rat, Tony thought. Bet you thought you’d seen the last of the spoiled rich boy, huh?

A man fired his automatic at Tony, the bullets flattening and bouncing off the chest plate. Tony, using the exoskeleton for added ‘oomph’, punched him right in the chest so hard he felt the man’s sternum crunch before he was launched back into a building. It felt good, _really good_. The next was blasted with a repulsor, as was the next. Bodies flying through the air to land in crumpled heaps.

The third, standing in front of stacked boxes labeled ‘Stark Industries’ was blasted with both hands, gauntlets whirling in what Tony assumed was satisfaction.

Tony turned to the last of them and froze when he saw that the men holding guns had hostages, women, children. They were shouting demands at Tony, demands he couldn’t understand, but he lowered his blasters.

“Jay? Lock on targets, use the needle rockets,” Tony said dangerously and watched in vicious satisfaction as the terrorists all dropped with metal in their heads. There was a brief moment of silence and Tony scanned the area. Raza had run, because all vermin do when frightened, but Tony wasn’t going to let him get away this time. Tony watched a young boy run to his father, and he felt thankful he managed to save that family, felt it in his bones, but he had a man to find. Heat signatures, wonderful little trick.

Raza, desperately trying to call for backup or the like, was easy to grab through the wall when Tony punched through the wall. He dug his fingers into Raza’s shoulders and tore him through the wall, making him land in a cut up heap at the feet of the civilians, the people of this town. Tony wanted to smash his face in with his gauntlets, but when he glanced around at the civilians watching with fire in their eyes, gazes on the orchestrator of the massacre of their people, their loved ones, Tony relented. They’d see the rat meet better justice than Tony.

Tony activated his boots, hovering a few meters above the ground and said to the furious people, “He’s all yours.”

Tony immediately headed to where he knew the missile launcher was, highlighting them on his HUD.

It was a miracle the explosive from the tank didn’t take him out, but it sent him spiraling and crashing into a building. Tony imagines that without JARVIS’s reinforced suit, he’d have broken something. As it was, Tony dug himself out of the rubble and strode down the street, hands clenched. He dodged the next explosive and then brought up a gauntlet, letting the anti-tank missile shoot out of its place in his vambrace and into the tank. The resulting explosion, Tony faced, wanting to watch the fire and wreckage.

He took off again, to the Jericho’s beyond the fiery wreckage, dozens of terrorists firing at him, bullets pinging off his armor, being deflected by his undersuit, and pulled up his gauntlets. The explosion from the destruction of the Jericho was easily enough to take out everyone in the area, but Tony hardly felt a thing. The fire that flew around him was nothing. The destruction was everything the terrorists deserved.

Mission accomplished, Tony set a course for home and took his place in the sky. He fell in place just above the clouds. He felt his heart pounding in the aftermath of the attack, excitement and anger in his bones, but the sound of wind in his ear was calming him down. JARVIS, though silent, was helpfully pulling up readings from the mission, how well the armor took the attack, damage that had to be fixed, what needed improving, the arc-reactor outputs.

Reviewing these, it took Tony a second to spot his tails. Two F-22 raptors following him, matching his speed easily, American military. “Oh, shit,” Tony cussed, glancing around for a way out of this. He spun out, trying to get a sharp enough turn that he could shake them off his tail.

“I agree,” JARVIS said. “We need to get out of their range. I’m listening in to their communications. They’re cleared to engage you as hostile. They’re trying to engage radio contact.”

“Deny it, we can’t- shit! Get us supersonic!” Tony shouted, and focused as his rocket boots increased their output sending him blasting forward through white fluffy clouds, the sunshine momentarily blinding him before JARVIS corrected his vision. Unfortunately, the Raptors could keep up with that too, and with the clear to engage, it means he had missiles on his ass. Tony looked over his shoulder to spot one after him and gaining, quickly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Flares!” Tony shouted, and felt the explosion push him forward, send him spinning in the air until he could get his balance back again. The explosion momentarily sends his repulsors sparking, so he spun himself right and waited a split second before firing the repulsors again. The jets had managed to get out of the explosion as well, as trained pilots tend to do, and still followed after him, though much closer at this point.

They were smarter than to try the rocket bit again, but Tony was then forced to grit his teeth as gunfire worked its way along his boots and bounced off his suit. He needed to be out of their range.

“Deploy flaps!” It felt like he was yanked by a fucking lasso but he quickly got control and darted under one of the raptors, grabbing into its belly and holding on for dear life, hoping the assholes lost him. He was actually pretty sure it would work for a while.

Until they started pulling left, exposing the underbelly of his raptor to the other pilot.

Spinning. Tony was not great with spinning, and that was a whole lot of Gs. He wasn’t even sure what was happening until he felt something hard hit him in the back and butt and found a semblance of balance to see that he’d taken out an entire F-22 with his ass.

“Okay, not ideal!” Tony said and followed after it. It exploded, but the pilot, lucky son of a bitch, ejected just in time. Tony kept an eye on him but… no chute.

“Intelligence says that the pilot's parachute is jammed,” JARVIS confirmed.

“Get us to him!” Tony demanded and shot after it as fast as he could. He approached, too slow for his liking, but he reached out, ready to grab the seat.

“You’ve been re-engaged,” JARVIS warned. “Sir- evasive maneuvers?!”

“Fuck it, saving lives!” Tony shouted, looking into the eyes of the panicked pilot. His hand closed around the metal, finally, and slammed his other fist into the jammed buckle. The chute opened at long last and provided Tony enough cover to step it up and dart out of range of the second F-22.

“Get us out of here, Jay!”

Flying close to the ground, and then darting up into the sky to fly in the clouds, relying on JARVIS’s scans to tell where he was going and any possible obstacles, he let out a sigh. He closed his eyes for a second and grinned. “How’d we do?”

“I give this mission a solid B, sir. You did, after all, take out an F-22 with your arse.”

“That’s fair,” Tony agreed.

“Sir, you have a call from Master Rhodes.”

Tony frowned, confused as to why his friend was calling now, of all times. “Uh, answer it I guess,” Tony replied. “Hello?”

“Tony,” Rhodey said slowly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Uh… driving,” Tony tried.

“Okay, let’s rehash,” Rhodey said, deadly calm. “About twenty minutes ago, my watch went nuts with your vitals, spiking all over the place after over a month of regular activity. I track your location via the connection and find that you’re in the middle of fucking Afghanistan, going supersonic speeds in a legal no-fly zone. Next, I hack into the military defense systems and find there’s something going on and I watch a bit of interesting footage of a man in a red and gold suit clinging to the stomach of an F-22.”

“Um,” Tony says, nervously. “What’s this got to do with me?”

 _“I RECOGNIZE YOUR ASS IN SPANDEX, TONY, DON’T FUCKING PLAY STUPID, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!?”_ Rhodey shouted at him over the call. _“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, ARE YOU FUCKING MENTAL?!”_

Tony cackled in reply.

“NO! WHAT THE FUCK! _WHAT THE FUCK?!_ ” Rhodey screeched.

“Rhodey, baby, calm down, I was going to tell you when I got back home, I swear. Listen, listen to me, okay?” Tony interrupted, trying to get Rhodey’s attention.

“Okay,” Rhodey said tightly. “What the fuck?”

“So, um. It’s not in the paps,” Tony started. “But the real way I got out of those caves was with a suit like this. The weapon story was bullshit, made it up so nobody knew about the suit. I made it out of cobbled metal and scrap parts, but it got me out and it was built to make those bastards pay. I caused a fuck ton of chaos on my way out, I made those assholes suffer for killing Howard, for killing Yinsen, for thinking they could order me around and torture me. They’ve been using Stark weapons to kill civilians for Tesla knows how long and as I trekked through the desert, I swore to myself that I’d fix my mistakes, my dad’s mistakes. I don’t want a legacy of blood. I don’t want a company that produces weapons for profit on foreign soil instead of the defense of American soldiers. I’m _done_ with war profiteering, so I built a new suit to put a stop to it all. And I’m going to burn the Ten Rings from the inside.”

“Jesus christ,” Rhodey murmured. “This is insane. This is literally crazy.”

“That brings me to my next question,” Tony hedged. “Will you join me? I already built you a suit. I’m waiting to ship it out, just say the word. I want you by my side, I want to make the world a better place with you. All I need it for you to agree. Please, Rhodey, we can do this.”

“This is fucking insane. This is- what even. Jesus, a _whole suit_. To fight terrorists in the Middle East?”

Tony tried to explain. “Yinsen was- Yinsen was more of a father to me than Howard and the killed him. They killed his family and he gave his life to save me. He died in my arms, Rhodey, with bullets in his chest and bleeding out. There are countless stories like his own and I hate that so much it hurts my soul. I hate that people are losing family to people with my weapons, I hate that this is happening because of my stupid fucking company. I want it to end and I’ll do it one way or another.”

There was silence from the other line and Tony felt like his heart was breaking. “Platypus,” Tony pleaded. “Please. You don't have to agree, but say something, please.”

Rhodey let out a breath. “I- fuck, I miss my parents so much. It was terrorist like the Ten Rings that took them from me. I want to make them pay for what they did every day of my life, but this scares the shit out of me Tones! How do I know we won’t die? How do I know that this isn’t a suicide mission?”

“I got shot by a tank and survived,” Tony offered. “I took out that F-22 with my ass.”

Rhoey sputtered a crazed laugh. “Yeah, I saw,” he said hysterically. “This is fucking nuts. This is-” there was a beat of silence. “I can avenge my parents this way. Better than joining up. I can hit them where it hurts most without bureaucracy or losing lives,” he said. “This- Tony. Okay. Okay. I’m in. But we have to be a team on this. I’m no sidekick.”

“Never. You’re my partner. I swear,” Tony promised, joy bursting in his chest.

“We’re gonna kick ass,” Rhodey agreed, sounding dazed. “This is insane.”

“Well, I’m Stark Raving Mad, which makes you Off His Rocker Rhodey. We’ll be fucking nuts together. I’ll ship the suit today and talk to you later, okay? We’ve got plans, Rhodey. And we're gonna do great things as partner's, right?”

“Yeah,” Rhodey said, fondness seeping into his tone.

“Hey, Rhodey.”

“What?”

“WHERE’S MY SUPAH SUIT?!” Tony asked loudly, which made Rhodey crack up. _“Where? Is? My? Super? Suit?!”_

* * *

Tony sent Rhodey’s suit in a box as soon as he was able to, coded to Rhodey’s genetic signature to make sure it couldn't be used by anyone but his best friend just in case something happened. Tony was a suspicious and cautious bastard at heart, so it was no big deal and he excitedly waited for confirmation of its arrival, watching in fascination the news reports of his debut.

_“Locals report that a man in a metal suit rescued them from an attack by the terrorist group knowns as the Ten Rings-”_

_“The army reports that a training accident occurred in a legal no-fly zone yesterday, resulting in the destruction of an F-22 raptor, though the pilot was reported to have suffered no injuries-”_

_“Though reports of this strange figure are unconfirmed, the destruction caused to the weapons and the injuries and causes of death sustained by the terrorists in the town of Gulmira could not be explained by any of the weapons in a fifty mile radius-”_

It was awesome.

Sitting at his desk at the house, he grinned stupidly as JARVIS continued to pull up the few reports he could find in relation to the mission. It wasn’t anything impressive, Gulmira was such a small town and there was no proof of Tony’s existence as a person in a suit of armor, but it was great to see what happened as a result.

Rhodey sent a message to Tony in September 3rd, and Tony was elated. Fucking pumped. They made plans to meet up on the fifth to get Rhodey used to how the suit worked, how it moved, how the weapons worked, how to fly in it, and so on. Rhodey was clearly nervous about it, but Tony was just excited to see Rhodey again, excited to start this project with his best friend.

Early morning on the fifth, Tony shouted to the house that he was having a sleepover with his friend and to mind their own business, he’d be back later, ran out of the house and took Stan’s cab to his warehouse, furiously throwing on his suit (and pulling on a backpack of his necessities) and blasting off, headed to the address Rhodey agreed to meet him at, an empty field outside the town Rhodey lived in. It was nice to look down at grey cities with bursts of color between the rooftops and empty grass fields dotted with flowers and plants. The town bled to trees and grass and Tony at long last, had his sights locked on Rhodey, standing in the middle of the field in full armor and undersuit, hands on his hips.

“Jay, patch me in to Rhodey,” he said cheerfully, and when he saw the connection established, slowed just a bit and dipped low, arms outstretched. “Rhodey!”

“Tony?” The figure in grey whirled around in confusion.

“Comin’ in hot!” he said, unperturbed, still grinning.

Rhodey at long last spotted him and his posture went defensive, holding his hands out in front of him and shaking them as if that would stop Tony’s rapid approach. “Woah, woah, _woah, woah_!”

Tony slammed into Rhodey, cutting off his rocket boots and clinging to Rhodey as they went flying and landed hard in a tangled heap. When they were finally stopped, Tony found myself lying on Rhodey, who was spread eagle on the ground, groaning at the impact. Tony shifted so he was propped up on his elbows, lacing his fingers together under his chin and kicking his heels up so his feet were raised toward the sky. “Hi,” he said flirtily.

Rhodey groaned again and opened his faceplate, looking at Tony as he opened his as well.

“I feel like a bumper car,” he said. “Please don’t do that again.”

Tony laughed at his expression and words and leaned over to kiss the tip of his nose, teasing him again. Their faceplates clacked together, but Tony managed it by turning his head a bit and Rhodey laughed at his antics.

“Alright, alright, I’m glad to see you again too,” Rhodey laughed. “Now can I get up?”

Tony pretending to think about it. “I guess,” he drawled. “But I like having you on your back.”

“Are you trying to call yourself a top? Tony, you are a goddamn pillow princess and you fucking know it,” Rhodey retorted quickly, and Tony cackled so hard he rolled off of Rhodey to kick his feet in the air. While he was gasping for air to get his breath back, reduced lung capacity partially at fault for that, Rhodey sat up and grinned back at him. Tony offered a gauntleted hand and Rhodey took it, letting them just sit in peace for a minute.

Tony let out a sigh at last and looked at his friend. “You want to know how the suit works?”

“Hell yeah.”

Tony helped Rhodey learn every function of the suit that day. He taught him how the gauntlets work, pointed out the weapons systems he installed, detailed the blueprints to explain how the suit functioned, explained all the tests he did while working for those two months, and at long last, got Rhodey up in the sky with him.

It was clearly nerve wracking on the other boy's end, but with Tony holding his hands as they both activated their boots, they rose in the air, letting the ground drop away from under them.

“Holy shit,” Rhodey kept saying, wobbling in the air as he tested the energy outputs of the boots. “This is so crazy.”

“You think it’s crazy now, just wait till we hit Mach 3,” Tony laughed. “C’mon, try to keep up!”

He pulled away, letting Rhodey get his feet under him, palm repulsors activating in turn and as soon as Rhodey looked at him, Tony darted away. “Can’t catch me!” he teased over the comms.

“Oh, we’ll see about that!” Rhodey shouted after him and the chase was on.

Over an hour later, they had landed in a mess of limbs when Rhodey tackled Tony out of the air and they managed to slow the decent enough to drop themselves in a wooded area somewhere.

“JARVIS? Where are we?” Tony asked, looking up at the blue sky, white clouds dotting the area, sun catching them and mixing colors.

“You’re pretty much in the very middle of the state of Pennsylvania, sir,” JARVIS replied.

“Pretty much?” Tony questioned. “That’s unusually vague for you, Jay.”

“You’re right, sir, my apologies. Allow me to rephrase: you’re in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere.”

Tony cackled at JARVIS’s words and Rhodey was sent into a wheezing heap beside him. It took them a while to get ahold of themselves. They sat in the forest for a while and talked about the armors, mostly, but they kept branching off to robots, food, their foster families, animals, the perils of a super capitalist consumer culture, the best type of soda, to which Tony gagged every time Rhodey mentioned root beer as being refreshing and awesome, and the best kind of foods.

Eventually, it started getting late, so Tony had JARVIS book them reservations at the best hotel within a hundred miles and they blasted off again. Before they got there, they landed in a secluded area and changed into their spare clothes, letting their suits retract into their cases, inconspicuous.

The hotel was very nice, four stars. They had a pool, a buffet, awesome beds, spacious and nice clean rooms. The room service was excellent and Tony tipped generously.

* * *

Ten days passed in a blur of boring, though Tony took the time to train out at his warehouse, practicing accuracy with his repulsor blasts, going through training courses with JARVIS, and even starting to learn hand to hand with a holographic JARVIS.

The night of the 14th, Tony received a thumbs up, good to go message from Rhodey and early in the morning, they both headed overseas in their armor. They didn’t fly together, it was faster to just arrive at the same time, tracking each other's progress over their HUDs. Tony had been avidly tracking the state of communities in Afghanistan to find out where he needed to go and what he needed to destroy over the news, tracking the locations of weapons supplies, the movements of the terrorists. Stark Industries weapons were surprisingly present, or maybe… unsurprisingly. Tony suspected a leak with how often JARVIS found a match for Stark weapons when looking for locations to attack, and it didn’t make him happy.

But! Theoretically, if Rhodey and Tony put enough pressure on the weapons the terrorists were using, and their numbers, they’d start to try to overcompensate and it might lead Tony to their hideouts and maybe to their supplier. Either way, getting rid of the missiles, the guns, the explosives? All very good things.

Tony spotted Rhodey about ten minutes from their final location and spun over to fly beside him.

“Hey,” Tony said. “You ready?”

“Mostly,” Rhodey replied, sounding a little nervous. “Just- trying to get in the right headspace.”

“Everything is bulletproof, hell, bomb proof even. We’ll be fine, I swear,” Tony offered.

“Right. I know that.”

Tony checked his maps. “Coming in on the drop zone, get ready.”

“Right,” Rhodey agreed, and they kept their pace until the town came into view, bursts of dust and fire coming from around the areas. “Time to kick ass.”

“That’s the spirit!” Tony said cheerfully and dropped out of the sky, Rhodey right after him. The landing was harsh, of course, but they did it with certainty and then started working. Repulsors bursting blue light, weapons being melted down or blown up, civilians rushing to cover as the attention of the terrorists were taken off of them. Rhodey was in his element, and Tony noticed that almost immediately. His blasts were accurate, efficient, and his hand to hand was as well. He took no prisoners, took no chances, and took no losses.

His initial nerves were long gone by the time they started ripping the missiles apart, barely paying attention to the terrorist trying to stop them with bullets and fists.

Once everything was quiet again, and the streets were filled with still bodies and broken weapons, Tony nodded. “We’re done here,” he said certainly. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Rhodey said, grabbing his arm and looking to their right. “There- there's someone stuck under that building. That woman is crying and trying to dig them out, Tony we have to help.”

Tony looked over to see what Rhodey was saying was true, a building, the front of which had collapsed some time previously, had a crying woman pulling rubble off of a pile with her bare hands, looking lost and frantic at the same time. The ceiling was the main problem, still intact despite the walls crumbling.

“Support the roof, let they get their people out,” Tony agreed, and they walked over. “JARVIS give me the strong points of the collapsed roof.”

Together, holding onto the piece of ceilings strongest points, the two boys hoisted it overhead, allowing a group of five Afghan women and men in to dig. There were three people trapped in the rubble, and one body. Once they were all out again, Tony and Rhodey dropped the roof.

They left soon after.

Rhodey held Tony’s left hand the entire time, the repulser deactivated to allow it.

* * *

“It was… intense, to be there,” Rhodey says later over their communicator, the rings. “To actually be fighting the people, or at least, the group that killed my parents. To see what they were doing and to be able to stop it before they hurt more people. It felt good. But also… bad, because I know that I killed some of those men. I feel like I should be more guilty, but I punched one of them in the chest, had to be fatal, had to be, after I saw him throw a grenade into a building and I just felt… glad.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling,” Tony agreed. “They’re hurting people and the only way to get them to stop is to stop them permanently. They don’t reason with people, they just hurt them. We need to learn to speak the same language. Violence.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it,” Rhodey says thoughtfully. “It was also nice to help out afterward. Do you think we could set aside some time to help out the people there after our missions?”

Tony bit his lip as he stared at the ring in the dark. “I think- I think that would be a good thing. Besides the whole helping out and being a good person aspect, it would be a good stick it to the Ten Rings as well.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey replies. “Yeah, that’s a good point. Shit- I have to go. I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

“Totally,” Tony agrees.

“Bye, Tones,” Rhodey rushes in a whisper, and then there's silence. Tony flips off the ring and shifts so he’s laying on his back. Dum-E, Butterfingers, and U are already in sleep mode beside the bed, on their chargers, and by the look of the computer, JARVIS is in sleep mode too, so he might as well try.

_Milliondollerbaby: hey, u wearing those jammies I got u_

_Rocketman: one, it is two in the morning, and two, ya bc they soft and shit man i lov em_

* * *

Two days later, Tony is informed that he’s going to move houses.

Tony takes in the information with vague disdain and then picks up his phone to make some calls about getting his tools and equipment packed up and moved to one of the Stark storage facilities in the state until he can figure out a new place to set up his shop. He was half grateful, honestly. He needed a change of pace, new people to avoid at all costs.

He packs his shit up and is taken across the state again. The goodbye isn’t long, or heartbreaking, it just feels like he’s moving on.

“Hello, Tony, my name’s Gregory O’Connor, and this my wife, Amber, it's nice to meet you,” is what he hears from his next family. They’re lovely, totally accepting of just about everything, even the cold distrust of the kids in their care.

They have three other foster kids, all of whom are uncaring of Tony. Tony is offered a room upstairs, but after seeing the basement, asks if he could be there instead. First, it's fucking huge. Like, the house is big, but the basement clearly extends under the front and back lawn for no clear reason. Half of it is a sort of tool storage area or something. The other half is this nice renovated entertainment area that’s kind of old. There's a nicer one upstairs, which explains why it isn’t commonly used. There’s a pinball machine too, which is epic. Also, this wreck of a house was built in the Cold War era so it’s even got a bunker with a hatch and everything in the corner. Not much down there, there are just some slots in the walls for bunks and a few storage cabinets, but he can sit down there if he wants quiet.

The couch with the entertainment system folds out into a bed and the internet connection is fantastic, as the router was downstairs in the first place. There are broken electronics, old ones like TV’s and other junk, from the last tenants only they never took it and the fosters hadn’t gotten around to trashing. Half the area is carpeted too, so that’s cool.

Tony flopped on his bed, which creaked annoyingly, and pulled out his phone.

_Milliondollerbaby: yo, whatup im in a new house_

_Rocketman: yo, me too. How’s urs_

_Milliondollerbaby: epic, im in the basement, by choice, bc theres a sweet entertainment system and a pinball machine and the other side has a nice selection of tools._

_Rocketman: nice, i got a room i share with another dude and a bathroom that smells like socks_

_Milliondollerbaby: boo_

_Rocketman: ye but like, a sick treehouse_

_Milliondollerbaby: sweet_

_Milliondollerbaby: how are the kids_

_Rocketman: they hate the other guy and keep trying to stage some kind of revolution? I’m honestly not sure._

_Milliondollerbaby: lol_

_Rocketman: I’m workign on some new weapons for my suit, my laser tech, I think I’m onto somethgin cool here. I’ll send u some specs soon, k?_

_Milliondollarbaby: im interested_

* * *

A week after he arrives, he’s put into high school.

“Wait, what?” Tony says. “Come again? I could have sworn you just said you signed me up for high school. But I might have hearing damage because what the literal fuck.”

“Well,” Amber said promptly. “We did. I might have been staying home this week, but we actually both have jobs and can’t have you staying home alone when I go back to work. It’s not safe, and it’s not legal,” she says. “And watch your language.”

“I am literally a genius and college graduate,” Tony says. “I have a Ph.D.”

“I know, which should make your freshman year all the easier,” Amber says pointedly.

“Unbelievable,” Tony scoffs and goes downstairs. This isn’t fair and makes no fucking sense. He went to MIT and graduated with Rhodey. He is beyond beginning high school again. He skipped elementary and parts of middle school, and thank god he isn’t going to one of those, but high school was hell the first time and he doesn’t look forward to repeating the experience.

A twinge of pain comes from his chest and he rubs absently.

Probably just a buildup of plasma or something. Loose wire. Or growing pains. Metal doesn’t grow with bone.

* * *

School is boring as shit and horribly repetitive. The only thing it’s good for is…. Vending machines in the cafeteria. And wearing some of his favorite clothes.

So, Tony does himself a favor and ignores literally everything about everything.

He’s in math class, which is probably irony in and of itself, when he cracks, unable to take knowing the answer before the teacher has even repeated the problem aloud. He pulls out his laptop and starts working on some of the concerns Doctors Without Borders is expressing about Tony’s inventions and checking his stocks (which JARVIS keeps an eye on to make sure they’re not sinking ship and sells when he thinks is best) that he uses to help fund the organizations he’s working with.

And, of course, tinkering with some designs for the armor. He’s actually seeing what he can do about the helmet right now.

“Tony, do you care to tell us what you're doing?” Miss Boring-me-out-of-my-mind says, pulling his earbud out like _what the fuck._ That was Iron Maiden!

Tony snatches it back. “Designing stuff,” he replies tightly. “Cause I’m bored.”

“Bored?” she says, raising her voice. “Oh, so you know all there is to this, do you?”

Tony can’t help but laugh. “Sorry, sorry, it sounded like you think I don’t.”

“Oh, if you’re such a smart guy, why don’t you solve the problem on the Promethean.”

“That dinosaur?” Tony says incredulously. “I’m not trying to be mean, but, that thing can’t process for crap and the precision makes me want to stab myself in the eye.”

“It doesn’t matter if you like it or not, you’ll be going to the board and correctly answering the question.”

“Okay, first, since when are we even going to be using math like this, I sure haven't and I’m an engineer. Second, I hate 2D projection technology. What is this, a drive in movie?” Tony pauses. “I don’t yet have a three, but I’m full of complaints and you’ll hear another soon enough.” Tony snaps twice. “Jay, give me the goods, lickety split.”

-Yes, sir.- JARVIS types out and blue throws itself in the air and hovers around his desk. Tony pulls his thin tablet pen out of the side and starts scribbling brief equations and simplifying the problem into a neat answer.

“Thirty four over seven,” Tony concludes. “Or, in decimal form, 4.85714286.” The class stares at him. “And again, I have, like, never used this math practically. So everybody forget it as soon as you pass the quiz on it, it’s irrelevant.”

He’s sent into the hall and like, why was that a punishment? Like, what? Oh no, he’s disrupting my class by wanting to be left alone to do his own thing, I might as well give him exactly what he wants and somehow frame it as a punishment?

Public school was weird. Tony pulls out his phone.

_Milliondollerbaby: lol, im in fucking high school again_

_Rocketman: me too, but im also in football so i got that goin for me_

_Milliondollerbaby: wtf why we hate football what r u a jock ew no stop platypus why_

_Rocketman: i was bored. I went to try outs and got in but i didn’t mean too. Only good thng is it gets me out of the house and is good exercise_

_Millondollerbaby: do you want a concussion? Because that’s how you get a concussion_

_Rocketman: no no i reinvented my helmet so less chance of that_

_Rocketman: i made this shit that pads the helmet better, moved kinda like a gyroscope kinda thing its hard to explain but its cool. It rolls ur head around in the stuff so it doesn’t rattle it_

_Milliondollerbaby: sure jan, but when u get a concussion and cant read bc of docs orders for however many months, don’t come crying to me_

_Rocketman: sure_

_Milliondollarbaby: how are u feelign about a mission this weekend_

_Rocketman: i’m in_

* * *

The mission goes well.

Taking out terrorist cells requires a bit of research ahead and making some on the fly decisions, but between the pair of them and JARVIS, Tony and Rhodey are en-route to a new town being targeted by the Ten Rings. It’s an unusually difficult mission. Tony feels a bit ill and exhausted by the time they get there, but he’s level headed enough to ignore the vague pain in the center of his chest to focus.

Rhodey seemed just fine and on this mission he finally revealed his new weapons; dual wielded laser swords in vibrant lethal red, used to cut metal and machines and walls. They started perfectly straight, like normal swords, but the ends were fitted with circular attachments that were segmented right down the middle, about the size of a paper plate each. They were meant to act much like battle axes, to give some more range, a deadlier end, more damage. They weren’t exactly like light sabers, they had a physical support under them that was fairly sharp by itself, but the laser aspect could be activated to make them more useful, to cut through stone and wood and metal like nothing.

Rhodey designed them with the suit in mind, so they directly connected to the repulsors for the energy needed to keep them burning hot and bright. The handles could connect to each other to make it one unit, Darth-Maul style, which was pretty damn awesome looking. When retracted, they looked like thick ringed circles about the size of open hands with thick bars stretched along the diameter. The retracted pieces stuck to the side of Rhodey’s hips neatly by magnetism and a few simple latches. He could easily grab them, trigger the release, which would swing the circular portion out on a hinge as they expanded to their regular size and extend the blade portion as red raced up them brightly.

Rhodey makes an effort to not kill with them, he doesn’t want to kill in general, but hacking off limbs or cutting someone in half is a bigger deal than punching someone and cracking all their ribs.

Tony sticks to his blasters, he likes the abstract presence of a weapon more than the legitimacy of something handheld.

They spend an hour helping with the weightlifting aspect, lifting up and removing the largest pieces of rubble, supporting crumbling homes long enough to help people escape, destroying the weapon shipments with deadly efficiency, and making sure any cowardly terrorists hiding among the people and in the buildings are dealt with.

Tony still feels off. He and Rhodey start home and as soon as they’re over American soil, pick a place to rest for the night and rest, mentally and physically exhausted. They can hardly speak to each other, so they rely on touch and mutual understanding to order food and soon sleep.

In the morning, Tony still feels gross. He takes an Emergen-C and he and Rhodey part ways, headed back to their respective foster homes.

* * *

After three weeks of headaches, chest aches, some dizziness, and not feeling better, Tony starts investigating. After a lot of self examinations, the unhelpful WebMD is consulted, and he builds a few pieces of medical equipment from scratch, Tony finds two things. One, little black lines around the arc-reactor, and two, blood toxicity levels.

Laying on the carpet floor after the revelation, Tony stares up at the support beams and says, “Well shit.”

“Palladium poisoning, yes,” JARVIS says solemnly.

“I mean, we predicted this as a possibility in Afghanistan, but after, what, six plus months of nothing, didn’t think it would actually happen,” Tony growled, sitting up, suddenly angry. “What the fuck! What the fuck? What the fuck!”

“I’m searching for viable replacements and running simulations now, sir. However, based on my readings, your condition will worsen exponentially from this point on.”

“What can we do to slow it down?”

When JARVIS tells him, he groans and buys what JARVIS suggests.

Chlorophyll shakes.

* * *

Tony and JARVIS start working on that at school and weeks go by as they fail to find a substitute. He keeps his grades up to a C but that’s all the willpower he has for that part of his life, so he doesn’t give a shit after that. He burns through his first palladium core and has to start replacing them. He’s sent to the office for swearing profanely after his seventieth simulation fails and he knocks over a desk.

“Do you have an excuse for this behavior?” the principal asks.

“I’m dying,” Tony says bluntly.

“Nice try,” the principle basically says. “Detention for a week.”

Tony shrugs. Oh no, how terrible.

He drinks chlorophyll by the bottle instead of water and his high-tech crossword puzzle still moves its way up his chest like some kinda fucked up spiderweb of death. He takes his blood toxicity level religiously as he searches and searches and two months pass. It hurts his fingers because taking blood sucks and everywhere else is more sensitive and hands make more sense.

“Hey, so, I’m dying,” Tony tells Amanda.

“No you're not,” she says, not looking up from her magazine.

“I have heavy metal poisoning,” he explains.

“That isn’t possible and you’re still going to school tomorrow whether you like it or not.”

Well, he tried, whatever.

_Milliondollerbaby: hey im dying_

_Rocketman: what the fuck how_

_Rocketman: Tony what’s wrong, im serious_

_Milliondollerbaby: palladium poisoning, it’s in the reactor_

_Rocketman: oh my god_

_Milliondollerbaby: i’m doing what i can, but i’ve got like, a few months_

_Rocketman: tony oh my god, i’m on my way, fuck_

_Milliondollerbaby: okay_

When Rhodey gets there, it isn’t pretty. There’s shouting, arguing, Rhodey starts crying and then Tony breaks down and JARVIS is doing his best to facilitate everything, but he can’t hope to contain the angry tears and focus of one teen and the emotional collapse of another, and after about two hours in which Rhodey accused Tony of hiding it on purpose, and Tony shouts back that he was trying to figure it out on his own, and in the end, Rhodey and Tony are clinging to each other and JARVIS is wrapping his arms around them both.

“We’re gonna figure it out,” Rhodey swears. “We’re gonna find a solution and you’re gonna be fine.

Concealing wet eyes, Tony nods into his shirt.

* * *

Three months in and perpetually feeling like shit, he has to change his palladium core in the middle of class. During a test.

“Oh, son of a bitch,” he says as his chest smokes slightly. It’s really only visible to him, by proximity and the clarity of the smoke, but he gets out of his desk chair, walks to the front of the room and pulls out the box of cores. And his bottle of nasty green shit.

“Uh, excuse me what are you doing out of your seat?” Mrs. Can’t-remember-her-name says.

“Medical emergency, I’m gonna step into the hall before I collapse, great thanks bye,” Tony slips out, sitting on the cold tile floor and hoisting his shirt up, putting a hand on his chest to start pulling the reactor out.

Mrs. Name steps out, ready to argue with him and freezes at the sight of him.

Not breaking eye contact, Tony yanks it out, ejects the burning hot core onto the tile floor, puts in a new one, and clips it back in. “Would you rather I do that in the middle of class? On your wood desk? Maybe start a little fire? Fry a hole in my test? I’d love a s’more about now.”

“You know what,” she says finally, looking tired of everything. “I don’t care. You do what you need to. You don’t care about my class anyway and you already graduated college so I can’t make you have to repeat.” She goes back inside the class and Tony lies on the floor and drinks his gross chlorophyll. It’s like drinking blended tree leaves.

After a minute of waiting for the core to cool, he drips some of his drink on it to cool it faster because he’s not crazy enough to leave a burnt palladium core in the middle of a school hallway what are you _nuts?_

* * *

Jarvis estimates his blood toxicity levels will be fatal levels in three weeks and Tony isn’t handling it well. No other element works and all the options they’ve got only make it worse, in general. Rhodey has been doing research on his end but still has nothing. Rhodey also isn’t handling it well. In fact, he’s handling it worse than Tony. He’s skipping school and obsessively going over everything he can, repeating trials and experiments and trying new things, trying to reinvent the arc-reactor in general.

He doesn’t want a goddamn magnetic iron lung for fucks sake. That’s the only possibly working idea he has going for him right now.

In this desperation, he starts scrambling for options, looking through his dad's notes by accessing files that only exist on the Stark Private server. His dad was a smart guy, but Tony was smarter and easily hacked his way in. He’s reviewing these stupid fucking video files for shits and giggles, replacing another core, when he hears it. First, well, baby him, which is whatever but then-

_“Tony.”_

This is it. He’s fucking cracked. He’s hearing his dead father's voice, shit does palladium poisoning do that? He takes the nearest chlorophyll drink and sniffs it to see if it’s gone bad.

 _“You’re too young to understand this right now-”_ oh, no wait, it’s the recording. Tony turns his complete attention to the screen. _“-so I thought I would put it on film for you. I built this for you.”_ Howard gestures behind him, to the extensive model of the Stark Expo.

_“And someday you’ll realize that it represents a whole lot more than just people’s inventions. It represents my life’s work. This is the key to the future. As of right now, I’m limited by the technology of my time. Might figure it out myself, might not, but one day I know for sure you’ll get it right. And when you do, you will change the world. What is and always will be my greatest creation is you.”_

Tony is dumbfounded for a second. Wait, what the fuck? First, his dad is making him do work he couldn’t figure out how to do and then he sweetens the pot by adding ‘you’re my greatest creation?’

That’s complete and utter bullshit.

Howard had never said he loved Tony. Hadn’t even said that he _liked_ him. He spoke more to Tony when they were in that fucking cave than he ever did to Tony in a lifetime. He must have been fucking drunk or off his nut. He criticized everything Tony did and designed, showed pure annoyance at the fact that Tony liked clean energy and defensive technology over offensive technology, and was drunk almost eighty percent of the fucking time.

He fumed as he stared at the paused screen and then blinked at the Expo Model. His anger dried up and curiosity took its place.

“JARVIS, where is this model?”

“Stark Industries HQ, sir, in Malibu.”

Tony schemed briefly and brought up his communication ring. “Rhodey, I think I have something.”

“What? For real? Oh, thank fuck, gimme what you got,” Rhodey said desperately.

“How do you feel about a little field trip? We’re going to have to be low key about this,” Tony said. “We can bring the suits, but we’ll have to avoid them unless, like, it’s life or death.”

“I’m in, give me a place and time.”

* * *

After arriving, Rhodey and Tony first stopped in a few stores to get cleaned up. Rhodey got his hair cut, as it was getting a bit unruly and long, looking poofier then neatly trimmed, and Tony got a bit of a trim as well. They next went to a few clothing stores to appear more professional when they went to the Stark building. Rhodey looked very dashing in black dress pants, a light grey button up, and a neat suit jacket, no tie, and Tony did his best to match. He wore a knee length black cotton skirt, matching grey leggings, a white blouse that exposed his shoulders, held up by elastic and friction and a cute and simple ribbon that wrapped around the back on his neck, and a slim black jacket to match.

Rhodey brought a grey fabric satchel with one of his laser swords, a laptop, his phone, a water bottle, his wallet, and a USB.

Tony brought a cute Valentino purse with his wallet, his access pass, a replacement palladium chip for emergencies, his phone, and a set of scanners that looked like the average zippo lighter. He wore his vambraces on his arm, looking to the untrained eye like thick gold wrist cuff bracelets. They were wired to his arc, in case of emergencies, and taped inconspicuously to his skin to hold them in place, under his arms and then to his chest, then hidden by his sleeves.

“Okay,” Tony said as they entered the building, arms looped together. “So, first we go to Obie’s office, we’ll be able to find out where Howards stuff from the Expo is stored, then we can find the model. We’ll be able to- hang on, security, I’ll get us by.”

Tony and Rhodey approached and he flashed his pass. The security guard plucked it from his hand, ran it through the scanner, and looked shocked at the result. “Oh, Mister Stark, we didn’t know you were visiting-”

“It’s fine, I’m here to check in on R&D and some projects, didn’t exactly call ahead to, y’know, make an appointment in my own building,” Tony said and flashed a million-watt smile.

“Well, you go on ahead,” the guard said. “Have a nice day.”

“Thank you, darling,” Tony said and pulled Rhodey past them and down the hall.

“Okay,” Tony continued. “Obie’s office is on one of the upper floors, in management. He’s the acting CEO.”

“I don’t like him,” Rhodey grumbled.

“Me neither,” Tony agreed. “But his office should be an information treasure trove. I don’t want him getting wind of this, he could make some pretty terrible weapons if he decided to look into the arc-reactor in any fashion, and if my hunch is right, whatever we get out of this will improve the arc-reactor in general, the energy output, efficiency, etc.”

“Well, only one way to go then, up,” Rhodey agreed. “That it?”

“Yeah, private elevator to the top floors,” Tony confirmed, and pulled Rhodey that way. He entered his passcode and the elevator starts moving, bringing them up and up until they finally reach the floor the CEO’s office resides on. Tony and Rhodey quickly legged it down the hall and slipped inside the empty office. Obie wasn’t there, but a secretary was sitting at her desk nearby and looked up when they entered.

“Mr. Stane isn’t in right now, you can schedule an appointment-” she starts.

“Hang on, darling, we’re not here to see Obie,” Tony replied. “The name’s Tony Stark, it’s on the side of the building.” He showed his access pass and his ID.

“Oh, um…” she glanced him up and down and then decided to reply with, “Doctor Stark, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, I like you, you’re sharp,”  Tony commented. “I just need to access some project files on Obie’s computer. We won’t take long.”

“Well, okay, sure,” she replied, abit reluctantly. “But please don’t break anything.”

“Sure thing, Miss Potts,” Tony replied, reading the nameplate on her desk. Rhodey pulled him on, opening the wood double doors for Tony before closing them quietly behind them.

“Okay, let’s find the model and get out of here,” Rhodey said. “What do we have to do?”

Tony sat at the desk and held out his hand. Rhodey pulled out the flash drive and plugged it into the computer. It briefly registered a security breach but was quickly silenced by the hacking code and JARVIS’s connection code. The AI was able to remotely connect to the computer now, and together, with Rhodey hovering over him to peer at the screen, they started looking through some of the expo files. It wasn’t long before they found the sector where the old model was being stored, but JARVIS remotely pinged a ghost file and brought it up.

Tony and Rhodey looked at each other.

“What the hell does he have in a ghost file?” Rhodey asked.

“I’m scared to find out,” Tony admitted and clicked on it. The first two files were concerning, but nothing immediately stood out, just weapons shipments.

“Shit, look, a Jericho, that’s where we went last month, the dates line up,” Rhodey whispered urgently, pointing at the screen.

“Oh, son of a bitch,” Tony hissed, hot anger bubbling up inside of him. “Is _Obie_ the leak? Shit, fuck, he, goddammit, what the fuck-!”

The third file was…

“That’s… that’s my armor,” Tony realized, cold horror replacing the anger. “Those are updated blueprints of the armor I used to escape. Oh, god, why does he have this?”

The next file opened, likely JARVIS’s doing, and Tony was struck dumb by seeing Ten Rings terrorist reading a list of demands, circled around a hostage with a bag over his head. They pulled it off and-

“Howard,” Tony’s lips said. Rhodey gently pushed him to the side and typed in the command to translate the words.

_“You did not tell us the target we were paid to kill was the great Howard Stark. As you can see, Obadiah Stane, your deception and lies will cost you dearly. The price to kill Howard Stark has just gone up.”_

“Oh god,” Rhodey said, looking stricken. “Oh, fuck, Tony.”

Tony was ice cold, unable to look away from the screen. He felt numb and horrified at the same time, he couldn’t move, like he was made of glass and would shatter if he shifted even a bit. Oh god, it was all Obie’s fault. Everything. The attack, the torture, being a prisoner, a captive, the fear, Howard dying in front of Tony’s very eyes, Yinsen, it was all because of Obie.

Rhodey started typing away at the screen. “JARVIS can’t get these out himself with just an access point, I’m putting it on the flash.”

The download started and Tony stared still stuck in place, like the chair he was sitting in was coated with honey. Rhodey put his hand on Tony’s shoulder and squeezed. “Stay with me, Tones.”

The door swung open and they both glanced up to see the man of the hour.

“Tony, what a pleasant surprise,” Obie said with a wide smile and cold eyes.

“Media face, media face,” Rhodey hissed into Tony’s ear and something took control in his immobile body.

Tony smiled goofily, “You know how it is, I love making an entrance and the RSVP is so last season. It’s been a while, you look nice,” Tony said, wiggling his fingers on Obie’s direction teasingly, feeling sick under his exterior. “Who are you wearing?”

Stane chuckled. “Nobody special, I suppose,” Stane said as he strode over, making a brief stop at the alcohol cart a few feet away, the one that used to be his father’s. Tony glanced at the screen, seeing the download still in action, he took the mouse and slowly moved it up, tapping the Stark Industries logo and scrolling down to screen saver. Rhodey shifted the newspaper on the desk to cover the flash drive. “What are you two kids doin’ here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be, y’know, at your foster homes? I heard you got placed somewhere new recently.”

“We both did, actually,” Rhodey answered. “Tony wanted to check up on what R&D was doing and get some old data from Howard’s Expo days,” Rhodey explained. “Said he had some ideas. He asked me to tag along. Thought it might be fun to get out and about.”

Obie hummed in interest and rounded the desk enough to glance at the screen.

“Seems reasonable. If you want, I can give you a tour of the R&D levels. They’ve got some pretty interesting automatics being tested today.”

“We have to pass,” Tony said, putting regret in his voice. “We made plans already, didn’t intend on sticking here long. They’re having a fashion show in the city, and you know how much I love going to those.”

“That I do,” Obie agreed. “Y’know, I’m glad to see you again, like this, all put together. I was worried that, well, you might have left some of yourself behind in those caves.”

“I think it’s pretty safe to say that not even a shitty trip to the Middle East can stop me,” Tony replied and it was tighter than he meant it to be.

“Well,” Obadiah said. “They always said you were a stubborn little bugger.”

“We better get going, Tones,” Rhodey said. “Or the show is going to start before we get there, and we’ve got to get to our seats before the models take to the stage.”

“Right,” Tony agreed. “Sorry we have to ditch you so soon, but the runway waits for no man.” Tony stands and gives Rhodey enough blockage to let him grab the paper and the flash drive, folding the paper up and tucking it under his arm.

“I understand,” Obie agrees. “But you should come around more often, maybe give some of our hot shots some tips and pointers.”

Tony winked and grabbed Rhodey’s arm when he offered it. “Bye, Obie, see you!” Tony waved over his shoulder and they almost made it to the door.

“Is that today’s paper?” Stane asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Rhodey said as Stane walked over to them. Rhodey shifted the paper so the flash drive was facing Tony. “I saw an article I thought looked interesting.”

“Do you mind leaving it? Puzzle,” he explained.

“Sure, I’ll just find it online later, I guess,” Rhodey replied. Rhodey handed it to Tony, who took and held it so the flash drive slipped into his jacket sleeve, palm up as Stane took the newspaper from his fingers, which made Tony feel like his hand had insects on it.

“Thanks,” Stane said with a smile. “You kids have fun now.”

“We will,” Tony assured and they finally slipped out the door and started walking quickly. Tony dropped his arm and let the flash drive fall into the palm of his hand, snapping open his purse and putting it among his things.

They pass Pepper, who watches them warily.

“Thanks,” Tony tosses her way.

“Have a good day, Doctor Stark,” she replies pleasantly.

They pushed through the doors and started down the hall. “We need to get the fuck out of here right now,” Rhodey said once they were out of earshot.

“We need the scans,” Tony said numbly. “We came for the scans, I don’t want to die, we need to get the scans first and then we need to fucking leave.”

“Right, right, stairs, go,” Rhodey urged.

“Sub-basement two,” Tony’s mouth said.

“Fuck, if only we had out undersuits or something, I didn’t expect this, god fucking dammit,” Rhodey hissed.

“Do you think I expected this?” Tony hissed back as they started down the steps, two at a time.

“Of course not, but this isn’t good, he’s in this fucking building with us and he’ll know that we downloaded the ghost drive,” Rhodey replied. “Tony, you cannot go back to your foster house, it’s not safe, he will find you and he’ll kill you, I don’t even have a little bit of doubt in my mind. We need to figure something out right now.”

“Repulsors,” Tony said in realization. “I have my gauntlets.” Tony grabbed his phone and dialed a few digits. “JARVIS, cover our tracks.” He hung up. “Rhodey grab on.”

Rhodey whirled Tony around and bear hugged him, over the shoulders, and waited. Tony flicked his hands and the vambraces spread into gauntlets and he activated the repulsors. He put locked his arms and faced his palms to the floor. He had to focus and be strong, carrying their joint weight over the railing and dropping them quickly, yet slow enough not to kill them.

“What about the footage?” Rhodey asked.

“JARVIS can hack the security, it’s not encrypted like the CEO server’s are and Stane already knows,” Tony replied. “There’s no way he doesn’t. He has an armor, he knows where it’s from, he knows how I escaped and he’s seeing two figures in metal armor fuck his business, he knows who we are.”

Rhodey growled in his ear and Tony found the floor they were looking for, tugging them off to the side and landing heavily, making both stumble.

Rhodey pulled Tony back to his feet. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

They pushed past the door into the storage area. They ran through the aisle of junk, parts and half-finished mechanisms, bits and bobs and wooden crates. Shelves from floor to ceiling separates some areas and the dead quiet, punctuated only by their panting and footsteps, echoed loudly. They came upon the model at long last, with other Expo things stacked around, banners and disassembled stands and props, and Tony fumbled to pull out the scanners, dropping one as his hands shook. Rhodey snatched it and rounded the model, holding it. Tony took the other and they switched them on, watching the hologram overlay and mold around the shrubbery, buildings, the waffle stands, everything. Once the hologram disappeared, Rhodey tossed the scanner back to Tony.

They heard a door close loudly and froze, barely breathing.

“Oh, Tony,” Stand said in a sing song voice. “I believe you took something of mine.”

“Service elevator,” Tony said desperately and rounded the table to grab Rhodey’s wrist. “Come on.”

They bolted for it, legs pumping and shoes eating up concrete, but Rhodey froze when he heard a shot and Tony cried out as pain dashed along his side. He went down hard and pressed his hand over the graze against his ribs, eyed wide and breath coming in hard quick pants. Rhodey hauled him up and ran again, dashing right suddenly to be covered by a shelf full of metal parts.

“Ow, fuck,” Tony gritted out.

“I got you, I got you, we’re fine,” Rhodey said desperately. “Let’s just keep moving.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “Fuck, I really liked this top.”

“Focus!”

“Now, now,” Stane said dangerously, voice echoing around the room. “I just want to have a little chat.”

Rhodey pushes Tony forward, so he stumbles over behind a support column and presses his own back to the other. Tony is confused, but he can hear Stanes footsteps now, he’s behind them, facing the beams they’re hidden by.  Rhodey peers around the corner and then motions for Tony’s attention. He brings his ring up to his lips and Tony holds his by his ear.

“How important is that thing?” Rhodey whispered, and motioned.

Tony glanced to his right, seeing a model airplane, wood, held over the open stretch, one strong line supporting it by anchoring into the other side of Rhodey’s column.

“Not,” Tony replied and Rhodey pulled his hand out of his bag, taking his sword out and activating it. It extended in less than a second and red burst along it. Rhodey spun and swung the blade, slicing cleanly through the concrete support and through the metal cord keeping the airplane up. It came lose with a groan and started falling.

Stane looked up and scrambled out of the way.

“Run!” Rhodey shouted and they chewed up ground like hellhounds were after them, hearing the model smash against the ground, shaking the floor, and hearing Stane start after them again.

Rhodey got to the elevator first, on account of having complete lungs and being in better physical shape than Tony. He slapped his hand against the call button, looking desperately back at Tony as he caught up. The doors slid open and they fell inside just as Obie stormed around a corner, gun aimed at them. Tony twisted on the ground and slapped the close button as Rhodey desperately pushed at the first button he could, the parking lot.

Several shots rang out and the door took two bullets as the third shattered the window of the elevator. It moved and finally, they were out of range.

“Fuck, are you okay?” Rhodey asked.

“I’m fine, it’s nothing, it feels like a scrape, are you okay?”

“It’s… just a graze. I’m fine.”

“Fuck, Rhodey!” Tony hissed, grabbing at him and looking for where the bullet hit him. He found a little stream of blood coming from Rhodey’s elbow and it really was just a graze. It cut through the jacket and left a decent looking scrape in his skin, but it didn’t look dangerous or urgent. “Thank god Stane is a shit shot. Shit, okay, that's fine, we just need to leave.”

Tony dug in his purse and dialed JARVIS. “We need a way out ASAP, give me what you’ve got.”

“I can have a taxi there in five minutes or Stane’s personal driver there in two,” JARVIS replied promptly.

“Loyalties?”

“Neutral,” JARVIS said. “At best. His internet search history seems to imply he is looking for other jobs.”

“Get us the man, thanks,” Tony said.

“His name is Harold Hogan and he is a white male in a business suit, he will meet you at the end of the parking garage in t-minus two minutes. He will be in a black Toyota Avalon.”

Tony hung up and stuffed his phone back in his purse, helping Rhodey stand up as the pair nervously waited for the doors to open again. Tony shifted from foot to foot and then glanced at his feet, spotting a few drops of blood on the ground, by each of them. He reached over and grabbed Rhodey’s hand, lacing their fingers together and refusing to look at Rhodey when he glanced at their hands.

Rhodey gave his hand a squeeze and Tony felt better.

The doors opened and they ran into the parking garage, past numerous employee vehicles and toward the entrance, where a black car was pulling in. It slowed when it saw them and stopped a second later. The car and driver matched JARVIS’s descriptions, so Tony grabbed the backseat door and yanked it open, crawling in, Rhodey after him.

“Step on it, go,” Tony demanded.

“Go where?”

“Far,” Rhodey said. “Just start driving!”

“Malibu Point,” Tony added, and the car moved.

“What?” Rhodey asked, shooting Tony a confused look.

“We have… a house there,” Tony said. “Howard wanted to be closer to Stark Industries HQ in Malibu, so he had a house built, but he, y’know. So it’s built, and it’s mine. We can stay there. It should be furnished somewhat. It’ll be safe.”

“Okay, yeah, fine. We’ll stay there for now. Oh, fuck, I’m getting blood all over the seat,” Rhodey swore. “Hey, uh, Hogan, right, you got any paper towels or something?”

“Why are you bleeding in my car?” Hogan asked, but reached into the glove compartment to toss back a travel pack of tissues.

“Um,” Tony said. “Hogan, you’re getting a promotion to my personal driver. I will pay a hundred dollars more per hour for you to not ever speak to or drive Stane around ever again, along with a ten thousand dollar initial paycheck.”

Harold blinked at the rearview mirror. He glanced at Rhodey putting a wad of bloody tissues against his elbow and then at Tony, who had shed his jacket and was pressing more tissues against his side, and nodded. “Okay. Uh. I can… do that. Oh, boy, what did I just get myself into?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Tony said. “Just keep driving.”

* * *

They got into the house pretty easily. Tony knew the passcodes already, so soon enough they were sitting in the living room with the first aid kit patching up their bullet grazes. Tony sent Hogan off pretty much immediately.

“Okay,” Tony said. “So the good news is that we should be safe. And we have the model scan. And we have a stocked workshop under the house we can work out of. And Hogan is going to get our stuff from the hotel, and we’ll get our armors here. The bad news is that Stane is trying to kill us and he’s behind the weapons in Afghanistan. And he has an armor.”

“Yeah, that’s _really not good_ ,” Rhodey stressed, pressing the adhesive of the bandage to the skin around the graze on Tony’s side.

“But it should be an easy fix,” Tony tried. “We sabotage or steal his suit and then get what we came from the Stark servers to drop to the FBI, CIA, or SHIELD, or something. Um. Right?”

“It resembles a plan,” Rhodey agrees, and scratches his head. “Um. Okay. So. Let’s… do the thing, with your scans, right? Let's see if whatever your dad got can help us save you.”

Tony nodded and carefully stood, wincing at the pain that came from the wound. He held out a hand for Rhodey and together they went down to the lab. It was clean as it could be, everything freshly put in its place. Only time had interfered with anything, a thin layer of dust on the tools and benches. Tony reached over and swiped a finger over the filth and then wiped his fingers on his old jeans.

“Gross,” Rhodey offered and Tony nodded.

“JARVIS, pull up the scans, please. I want all your little goodies up on a projection,” Tony said.

Blue appeared in the air, morphing into an identifiable shape in a flash. The model appeared in front of them and Rhodey touched the edge of it so it swung down, then holding itself like a painting on a wall in front of them. It was fascinating to look at, with several geometric patterns initial obvious, but with something… more hidden underneath.

Tony considered it, something niggling at the back of his mind. “How many buildings are there?”

“Should I include the Belgium waffle stands?”

“Dad’s fucking thing with those fucking waffles,” Tony muttered, rubbing his face. “He was like the Leslie Knope of those fucking things. Just show them to me please.”

Rhodey snorted, amused. The model ripples slightly as JARVIS makes a few edits and Tony tilts his head, trying to identify exactly what he sees. The highlights add definition and structure to what they see and Rhodey hums.

“It kinda looks like an atom,” Rhodey realizes.

“If that’s so, the nucleus would be... here.” Tony pointed at the globe in the center. “Highlight the unisphere.” Tony took the highlighted ball expanded it so it was about the size of one of those foam dodgeballs they had in gym. After looking at what he’d done so far, Tony added, “Lose the walkways, they’re irrelevant.” He swatted them away.

“What are you trying to do with this, sirs?”

“We’re rediscovering a new element, probably. Lose the leafy green things that go outside.”

Rhodey gave him a look. “The… shrubbery and trees?”

“Yeah, those.” Tony agreed.

“You need to go outside more,” Rhodey said, sounding a little worried.

“We literally go out to beat up terrorists,” Tony replied.

“I think the fact that you had difficulty remembering the name for those things proves that you need to get outside more, despite our missions to Afghanistan,” Rhodey insisted.

“I can do that when I’m not dying.” Tony starts swatting more stuff out of the way. “Parking lots, exits, entrances.”

Rhodey looks back at the model. “What if we structured the protons and the neutrons using the pavilions as, like, a frame? Right, do you see that?”

“Yeah, year, if we just…” Tony flicked away some extraneous parts and Rhodey joined him. The continents on the globe vanish, the buildings bounce away and vanish, and they watch JARVIS fabricate the globe to their specifications, following their hands, their notes, and they wait as JARVIS spins a masterpiece into existence before them.

When it’s done, they stare at the shape in front of them, the hovering ball of gorgeous blue perfection. Tony reaches out with both hands, taking the shape into them. Rhodey scoots closer to look and when Tony gives him a questioning look, he nods. Tony throws his hands wide, making that atom fifty times its original size, and watches the hologram spin around him like twinkling stars. Tony looks at it and laughs as Rhodey throws his arms around Tony and hugs him.

“We did it!” Rhodey says joyfully, a wet laugh building in the back of his throat. Tony grabs him back, tucking his face into Rhodey’s neck as the taller boy spins him around and laughs.

After a moment, Rhodey slows them to a halt, keeping his arms around Tony’s waist, and Tony wiggles his arms out enough to reach up and clap them together, collapsing the projection into a small ping pong ball shape of glowing blue. He brings his hands down so the atom is between them.

“The proposed element should serve as a viable replacement for palladium,” JARVIS says, sounding relieved. “But it is impossible to synthesize.”

“Uh-huh,” Rhodey said. “That sounds like quitter talk, what do you think Tony?”

Tony smiles and wraps his arms around  Rhodey’s neck. “I think I hear a challenge when I hear one.”

Rhodey grins and hugs Tony so tight that he’s squished against his chest and Tony loves every second of it. After they move over to the couch, Tony and Rhodey order all the things they need for a prismatic accelerator. Hogan arrives ten minutes later with all of their stuff, to which Tony tips him several hundred in bills and tells him to wait for a call.

Hogan looks uncertain. “Are you sure? I mean, if you’re in danger, I don’t…”

“Trust me when I say we’re fine,” Tony insisted. “Just keep our location secret, don’t tell anybody. That’s all you need to do. Just be there when we need you and you’ll get paid for your side of things and be our driver.”

Hogan nodded, but still looked reluctant.

“Go away, please,” Tony said next, making a small, yet polite, shooting motion.

“Yeah, okay. But call me as soon as you need help,” Hogan said, starting to back away. “Or the cops or something, just for heaven's sake be safe, because if something happens to either of you, I will never forgive myself.”

“Bye,” Tony says, waving him out the door.

They set up the JARVIS box first. JARVIS was already getting settled into the security system, but they could open up the system’s hardware, tucked near the fuse box, and put some of his components into it to make it run more efficiently. Besides that, the arc-reactor JARVIS used to power his hard light projections could be plugged into the power system to give him the capability in the house.

They put their suits somewhere safe and easily accessible, put their clothes in the biggest bedroom, and settled on the lab couch again. They go over the list twice to make sure they’ve ordered everything they need before taking a break to order some takeout. Rhodey starts on the plans for setting up the accelerator and Tony works on refining the details. It’s nice, working together again. Just the sound of rock and roll between them, intermixed with the sappy romantic songs that Rhodey loves. He’s such a goob.

 _“It's amazing the time that it's taken for you to come out here~. I don't know what you do in the~re.”_ Rhodey bobs his head to the music and Tony glances over because he loves hearing Rhodey sing. _“Only so many ways you can change how light will hit your face, or how you can fix your hair.”_ Rhodey makes a motion above his head, as if fixing it himself, and he glances at Tony with teasing eyes. _“You only got two eyes, two lips, so why-?”_ He makes a small exasperated motion and spins himself on his seat to fully face Tony.

 _“It shouldn't really take long at all! But when you finally smile cause it's just right...!”_ Rhodey sings to him, with a happy teasing smile on his lips and Tony can’t help but stop his work to watch the performance from his seat.

_“Damn, you look beautiful.”_

And… Rhodey sounds so honest that Tony is taken aback by the fond expression on the other teen's face.

Rhodey stands and puts his hands up, dancing to the beat with a hop in his steps, shaking his hips back and forth, closing his eyes as he grins. _“You take forever- ever- ever- ever~! But you're always worth waiting for! You take forever- ever- ever- ever~…”_ Rhodey shrugs dramatically. _“I guess I'll wait a little more._

 _“Now, I know it's time~ I realize~ I’mma be waiting half my life- yeah- !”_ Rhodey sings, sounding nonchalant and honest yet again. _“With my back up against the door!”_ Rhodey drapes himself against the table Tony was working at, sliding down to sit, knees up to his chest.

 _“Cause you take forever- ever- ever- ever- ever- ever- ever…”_ He sings, and then he looks up at Tony with shining eyes, grabbing Tony’s hand to hold between his own. _“But you're always worth waiting for.”_

“You’re gonna make me fucking cry,” Tony says, and his voice wavers. “Asshole.”

Rhodey barks a laugh and continues to sing. _“And you lie through your teeth when you try to convince me that you'll be~! That you'll be out in less than five! ‘Cause we both know that the only way you will ever leave... is if we set the whole place on fire!_

 _“You already said- you- had- the- per~fect dress,”_ Rhodey complains, throwing his hands up. _“So why you gotta try ‘em all? No matter how late it gets, I must confess… Damn, you look beautiful!”_

“Thank you,” Tony says, a little choked up.

 _“You take forever- ever- ever- ever…”_ Rhodey notes. _“But you're always worth waiting for. You take forever- ever- ever- ever… I guess I'll wait a little more.”_

 _“Now, I know it's time~ I realize~ I will be spending half my life~ yeah~! With my back up against the door!”_ Rhodey shrugs, not caring about that fact. _“Cause you take forever- ever- ever- ever- ever- ever- ever… But you're always worth waiting for.”_

Rhodey finally stands and pull Tony up out of his seat, taking his hands and starting a lazy dance.

 _“You take forever, ever, ever, ever… I guess I'll wait a little more.”_ Rhodey hums along to the music for a bit, just swaying them along the floor as the music turns to vocalization and Tony feels like his chest could just burst.

 _“Guess I’ll wait a little more,”_ Rhodey finishes, and his voice trails off as the music does.

“I like you a whole lot,” Tony tells him, smiling so hard his cheeks are starting to hurt, and Rhodey beams like a beautiful little rose flower boy. Tony kisses the tip of his nose and Rhodey hugs him close.

Eventually, they get tired and everything is as ready as it’s going to be. Rhodey calls his foster parents to assure them that he is fine and that the trip he’s on is going to be a bit longer because their flight has been pushed back and a whole bunch of bullshit excuses. He’s not really a good liar, but they buy it anyway. Tony watches from the bed, dressed in the pajamas that match Rhodey’s, with fascination. Rhodey finally hangs up and groans, flopping face first into the king sized mattress.

“Aw, pookie,” Tony says sympathetically, patting his back.

Rhodey groaned harder. “They’re not- they’re not bad people. They just don’t… they don’t connect with me. This trip is probably a _relief._ ”

“Aw, _pookie,_ ” Tony said, even more sympathetically, now rubbing along Rhodey’s spine.

“I just feel bad lying to them,” Rhodey said. “But, like, it’s not their business. But I still feel bad!”

“Massage?” Tony jokes and starts gently karate chopping along Rhodey’s back where he can reach. Rhodey chuckles into the comforter. Tony pulls Rhodey up so that he’s finally in a good sleeping position, and they both struggle under the covers.

“Night, JARVIS!” Tony calls out.

“Night, J!” Rhodey adds.

“Good night, sirs. Would you like me to play anything?”

Tony and Rhodey exchange a look. “Moonlight Sonata?” Rhodey asks.

“Ooh! A classic. I like your taste,” Tony replies, and the soft music starts up, low and quiet, a nice white noise in the background as the lights dim to nothing and the blue of the arc-reactor cuts through the darkness.

* * *

The next morning, Tony wakes up with both of them having migrated. Rhodey is half curled around Tony, with his nose buried in the hair on top of Tony’s head, one arm under Tony’s pillow and neck, the other flung over his stomach, and one leg hooked over one of Tony’s. Tony’s has one hand twisted in the fabric of Rhodey’s shirt and the other laying on Rhodey’s arm. He feels warm and safe and comfortable…

And a little sick.

Tony hums at Rhodey and Rhodey takes a deeper breath as he wakes up.

“Hey,” Tony rasps. “I need, um, one of my gross smoothies, an Emergen-C, and a coffee.”

Rhodey lets out a sigh, not wanting to get up. “I’ll order breakfast burritos.”

Reluctantly, they extract themselves and go their separate ways to get ready for the day. Tony pads into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and pours a packet of Emergen-C into a small cup of water, sipping at that as he starts to make his chlorophyll shake.

Rhodey comes back dressed in a red polo and dark blue jeans with white socks. He takes the mug of coffee Tony hands him as he passed, two sugars and a dash of cream because Tony knows he prefers it that way. “They said the food will be here in about thirty minutes and that was twenty minutes ago, so food’s up soon.”

“Nice,” Tony said. “I’m starving.”

The burritos are delicious. Rhodey chose very well. Tony goes to clean himself up, brushing his teeth, wiping off with a washcloth in the bathroom to give the illusion of being freshly washed, before deodorant and a bit of perfume. He dresses in a sturdy set of pants, a comfortable shirt, a hoodie, and his work shoes, steel toed, so he doesn’t break a toe again when he drops a tool or piece of equipment.

They regroup briefly to go over what needs to be done and get to work.

“JARVIS, we’re in hardware mode!” Tony calls out as he puts a sledgehammer up on his shoulder. “We’re going to need to remodel after this, keep tabs on what would go best with our destruction!”

“Sir,” JARVIS says, aghast, and Rhodey takes the first swing at the wall with his hammer as he laughs.

The destruction takes a good few hours, and it’s all immensely satisfying. But then they have to go over the house blueprints and their plans to do all the wiring and intricate stuff. It goes quicker with two people because that’s four hands total, both with knowledge in this type of engineering, but it takes a lot of thought and careful action so it’s tiring at best.

Sometime after noon, the crates arrive and they get to work.

They aren’t actually at their peak strength levels. They rely a lot on the exoskeletons for the suits, so the first time they pull one section of the prismatic accelerator out of the box, they stumble and fall down backwards with it in their arms, struggling and cursing before managing to get to their feet and take it where it needs to go. JARVIS helped a bit.

Getting the accelerator all set up involves a lot of measuring, leveling, and taking random shit from around the lab to get things level.

When it gets dark and they get tired of doing physical work, they design and work on the new reactor, as well as where the new element will fit and how the core will accept it. It takes them two days to set up and support every piece of the particle accelerator as well as calibrating the energy levels and doing system and physical checks.

They’re practically ready to go… except…

“Why won’t you be level?” Tony quietly seethed at the portion as Rhodey rummaged around in a scrap heap for something to put under the section. “You tiny expensive _bitch_.”

“Wait! Wait! I think this’ll work!” Rhodey holds aloft some awful circular nonsense that looks like modern art and Tony hates it immediately.

“Perfect,” Tony agreed with finality, throwing his hands up. “You’re a miracle worker, a modern not crazy Tesla. Here, give it to me, you’re stronger.”

Tony takes the thing and gets ready as Rhodey grabs around the coil, waiting for a cue. “Lift the coil. Go, go. Put your knees into it, Honey-bear.” Rhodey lifts it up and Tony jams the equipment under it quickly. “There you go. And… Drop it. Drop it.”

Rhodey breathes out, and shakes out her arms, wincing and stretching his back. “That’s why I said use your knees. Now you’re going to have back problems,” Tony tutted, and placed the level, watching it. ”Perfectly level.”

“Yay!” Rhodey cheers sarcastically and deflates a bit. “Fucking finally.”

The entire accelerator was held up by sheer willpower and elbow grease. It was supported by boxes of videotapes, a fancy tool chest, a motorcycle with books strapped to the seat, a broken workbench, the top of a table, and so on. It’s awful, and it looks a mess, the lab is a mess, their lives are a mess, but it works and this level proves it.

“JARVIS, what do we need to get this little lady underway?” Tony questions.

“You need to put the prism in place and adjust the trajectory. Afterwards, we need to access the power grid, set it to our specifications, and we should be good to go, sir,” JARVIS answered. “As well as set up the actual core the accelerator will be influencing.”

“I’ll get the prism and set the reactor core, you set up the electric grid,” Rhodey says and Tony nods in agreement.

“Good plan,” Tony agreed.

Less than an hour later, both of them are ready. The particle accelerator was level and connected, the parts were all in place, everything was initialized and set to the correct frequencies and power levels. Rhodey has put the core in place, right on the table the accelerator was circled around, and it sat pretty as a picture.

Tony leaned on the accelerator and considered it. “I’m getting… Not Mona Lisa vibes, but Girl with a Pearl Earring vibes.”

Rhodey stared at him like he was nuts, hands on his hips. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Go to a fucking art show, Rhodey,” Tony said, giving him a look. “Uncultured _swine_.”

Rhodey throws his hands up and sighed, walking away. After a few minutes of system checks, they were finally ready. Tony put on his sunglasses, his custom ones mean for welding and other bright activities, and got ready to turn the master key of the system energy board set up near the power regulators.

He looks at Rhodey, who was wearing a welding mask in turn. He pushed it up and looked at Tony.

“Question,” Rhodey says. “How the _fuck_ do you make engineering look so good?” He narrows his eyes and drops his head down to Tony’s shoulder. “And why do you smell like roses and gold?”

“It’s a gift, and my mothers favorite perfume. Besides that, I’m very fashionable. I had these sunglasses specially made for welding and the like because I wanted to look cute while doing it,” Tony replies. He considers Rhodey and the accelerator and hands him a large wrench. “Try this and take your _fucking_ polo off.”

Rhodey laughs and, amazingly, _does_. He puts the welding mask and work gloves on the nearest table, strips himself of his shirt, puts his gloves and mask back on, and puts the wrench up on his shoulder like a bat, putting his other hand on his hip and posing a bit.

“Ooh, excuse you?” Tony said, offended by Rhodey’s body, the outline of abs, pecs, and excellent arms. His sharp collar bones and flawless neck. “Hon-ee!”

Rhody cackles, throwing his head back so hard he almost loses his welding mask. “Let’s just get this done,” Rhodey says, amused, and Tony forces himself to look away, to turn the key.

The lights dimmed immediately and the accelerator started whirling online, a thick electric hum echoing through the air. Tony and Rhodey quickly get over to the wheel above the prism, hands clutching at the mechanism as JARVIS cut in with an, “Initializing prismatic accelerator, sirs.”

Okay, this was it. Tony took a second to let out a breath and hopes it would work just how they wanted it to. Tony gave the wheel a test wiggle and found that he couldn’t get it to budge. Tony urged Rhodey to use the wrench and Rhodey quickly fastened it in place before both of them clutched at it, ready for anything. The whole accelerator started shaking like a blender and Tony grimaced as one of the supports was shaken out of place. It didn’t move, though, so kudos for the rest of the supports. That’s engineering at it’s finest.

“Approaching maximum power,” JARVIS informed them and they braced for it.

About five seconds after, a bright brilliant blue beam of energy lit up the lab and they started turning the wheel because _shit the beam was in the wrong place_ . It _should_ be toward the desk where they set up the arc-reactor core. It really wasn’t.

“Fuck, my bad,” Rhodey apologized briefly, and, groaning with the effort, they pull on the wrench to get the beam to move.

As it slowly made its way over,  they accidentally cut metal cabinet in half, as well as a few miscellaneous bits and bobs. “Whoops,” Tony muttered and Rhodey bumped him with his hip.

They finally reached the device and carefully aimed the beam to hit the piece of base metal. They let it charge up and manipulate the molecular arrangement for about fifteen seconds until it became blindingly white. When that happened, Tony reached over and quickly turned the accelerator off. The lights slowly returned and they blinked at the workbench.

After it settled, Tony pushed up his sunglasses. “Well, that was easy.”

Rhodey hummed in agreement, pushing up the mask. “Yeah. Cool.”

Tony held out his fist and Rhodey bumped it respectfully. They ducked under the particle accelerator and approached.

JARVIS hummed and then said, “Congratulations sirs, you have created a new element.”

Tony settled on the stool in front of it as Rhodey leaned on the table, examining the new glowing core. It was gorgeous, sleek and glowing brighter than any glowstick every could.

“That is so cooooool,” Rhodey says under his breath. “That is so coooooooool.”

“This is so coool,” Tony agrees with wonder in his voice.

“What do you wanna call it?” Rhodey asks, glancing over at Tony. Tony looks at the glowing element, trying to think. It was a gorgeous element, with massive potential. The product of two, the discovery of one.

“Starkhodium?” Tony suggests. “With Stark bring first purely because my dad discovered it, but we made it a reality.”

Rhodey considers and nods in agreement. “Better than what I would have come up with. Rhoarkium just sounds stupid anyway. The fact that it’s charged with enough energy to light up without being radioactive is so cool,” Rhodey said.

Tony took a pair of pliers and fished it out of the stand, holding it up carefully so they could both get a closer look. “This is some tight shit,” Tony agreed.

Rhodey grabs the arc-reactor they made in advance and opened it up, holding it for Tony. “Doctor Stark,” Rhodey says dramatically, bowing his head a little.

“Doctor Rhodes,” Tony replied sagely, and fit the triangle into the new reactor. They both watched in fascination. The new element slotted into place and was pulled inside automatically by the mechanism, folding into it like mechanical origami. It soon started to power up with glowing blue energy a beautiful whirling ring in the air.

“The reactor has accepted the modified core,” JARVIS noted. “I’ll start running diagnostics.”

“You do that,” Tony murmured as he stared, Rhodey edging closer to sit beside him as they both did so.

An hour later, Tony pulled out his old reactor and Rhodey handed him the new one as he breathed calmly. Tony fixed the new reactor into the port and groaned as he felt the new power and efficiency of the reactor. It was kind of overwhelming.

“Tastes like coconuts… and metal,” he ground out.

“That… is strange,” Rhodey said, a little concerned.

“I mean, the reactor is near my lungs and esophagus,” Tony said and he took a breath in, testing how the new element feels and seeing if the flavor continues. Some of the pain in his chest faded. “Does my breath smell like coconut?” Tony blew at his face and Rhodey looked hesitantly considering.

“I think something’s there, kinda metallic,” Rhodey reluctantly agreed. “But I don’t actually know. Okay. So, we’ll keep an eye on that, yeah?”

“Sure, but I’d rather my mouth taste like the tropics than ass and smoke, like the palladium was like.”

Rhodey stares off into space. “Yeah, I guess I can’t argue that.”

Tony suddenly thought of something. “Wanna kiss?” Tony offered.

“Not really,” Rhodey replies, a bit confused. Tony reached into his pocket and pulled out a bunch of half melted Hershey Kisses, dropping them to the desk, where they rattled like raindrops. Rhodey stared at them and looked up at Tony. “Fuck you.”

Tony cackled in reply.

* * *

The next day, however, was no celebratory day. They took the flash drive with all the files they stole from Stane’s computer and started going through it section by section. It was… bad. Really bad. ‘ _Piss your pants before you light them on fire oh god everything is on fire_ ’ bad. Tony was staring, daunted and sick as he read the numbers, saw the blueprints, saw all the weapon shipments Stane signed off on. So many lives… these weapons have killed innocent people and Stane didn’t give even half a shit.

That wasn’t even including the new designs on the Iron Monger suit. It was… scary. The suit was _scary_ , with all the weapons, the strength limits, the power behind it all. It was bastardized and plated with daunting metals and frightening firepower. This thing could kill thousands. It was something out of Tony’s worst nightmare.

“I have to destroy this suit,” Tony said into the silence of the kitchen.

Rhodey looked up, looking exhausted as he read from a tablet. “The Iron Monger suit?”

Tony nodded, staring at his screen. “As soon as possible. This can’t… I can’t have this, I can’t have the deaths this suit causes on my hands.”

“Tonight then,” Rhodey said calmly. “We’ll go tonight.”

Tony didn’t look away from the blueprints.

* * *

A few hours after dusk, Tony was sitting in the living room, setting up a message to send to SHIELD about Stane, one that they couldn’t tract to Tony or the house, completely anonymous but certain to catch attention. He doesn’t trust the fuckers, but he knows they can take Stane down and distract the man as Rhodey and Tony snuck in and destroyed or stole the suit. Piece of cake. All he had to do was attach a portion of the stolen files, explain what was up, and send.

Rhodey was in the workshop getting their suits set up and locating the exact lab the suit was in. He said he was having an issue with one of his laser blades and was going to fix it before they left as well. He also wanted to keep the accelerator set up to create another arc for his own suit. So once they had this unpleasantness settled, they’d do that and everything would be okay again.

Tony licked his lower lip and squinted at the message, checking it over for any errors and hit send just as something painful dug into his ears. Tony would have gasped or shouted, but almost instantly his limbs went lax and tense at the same time. The sound cut into his head, making him feel like his head was being cut by razors.

He struggled to breathe, his lungs twitching to let in a tiny puff of air before squeezing it back out. He felt like he was suffocating and panic struck him through the arc-reactor. It reminded him too much of being shoved under, over and over and over and over, and water surged into his lungs, which constricted like boas, hacking raspy coughs that hurt every rip, that tasted like blood and raw pain, barely being able to speak to Yinsen to tell him what hurts.

Into the water, over and over and over and _over._

Tony’s vision blurred with water and he couldn't blink as a figure came to hover over him, white, too much white, the light shining into his open eyes.

“Breathe,” a much too calm voice murmured, a voice that made Tony’s blood chill. “Easy, easy now.” A large hand eased his head and neck back, holding with threatening gentleness. “You remember this one, right?”

Stane showed him the paralysis device Tony designed, holding it to the light. He just wanted to make something that didn’t kill, he just wanted something other than a gun or a bomb. Staring at it, unable to move even his eyes, he felt terror lodge in his throat. He was so _fucking_ scared. Where was Rhodey? Tony wanted Rhodey, he was scared and Rhodey could do anything. Where was JARVIS? Didn’t JARVIS see what was happening?

Stane hummed a bit and rounded the couch. He took Tony’s chin in his hand, a hand that felt clammy and hot at the same time. Stane smiled at him with amused eyes. “It's a shame the government didn't approve it. There's so many applications for causing short-term paralysis.”

Stane took his hand back to take the glowing earbuds from his ears, the ones that prevented him from being affected.

“You know, Tony, when I ordered the hit on Howard, I thought it was a damn shame you had to go too, but I knew that if you ever took over, this company would see some major changes. Changes that didn’t suit the investors, didn’t suit the company, really.”  

Stane vanished from his vision for a moment but leaned back into Tony’s sightline with a claw like contraption. “But I will admit, I worried that I was killing the golden goose. Not your father,  Howard’s time was done. He was a drunk that designed as well as he stayed sober. But you, you always had that spark.” Stane put the device against the arc-reactor and Tony started breathing too quickly, in and out and in and out and in and out as tears streamed down his face silently.

The device whined heavily, like it was in pain, and Tony could feel vibrations through the metal embedded in his chest, secured along his ribs. It hurt like a bitch, shaking nerve endings and pulling like it was trying to rip everything out.

The arc-reactor popped suddenly, the internal holding mechanism in it being cut through with hot metal that smoked. If Tony ever got the reactor back in, it wouldn’t secure right. He’d have to put in a new system to keep it steady and in place entirely. The smell of burning cotton and hot metal filled his nose as he stared at Stane, who brought the arc reactor up and marveled at it with his serene smile.

Stand hummed. “But, you see, it was just fate that you survived that. You had one last golden egg to give.” he shook the arc in Tony’s direction as an example. “Do you really think that just because you have an idea, it belongs to you? I guess you are young, the idea is as well.” He gave an amused dark chuckle and let out a satisfied sigh. He shifted and Tony felt a weight settle beside him. His skin crawled at the touche, the arm around his shoulders, the grip on his arm. Tony felt a chill go down his spine, and he forced himself to try to breathe as he felt metal shift in his chest.

“Oh, it's beautiful,” Stane marveled and Tony hates that he agreed, that he found such beauty in his stolen heart, the pure glow that Stane was going to ruin. “What a _masterpiece._ This is your legacy. A new generation of weapons with this at its heart.”

The pun didn’t go over his head, and Tony hated it with every fiber of his being.

“Weapons that will help steer the world back on course, put the balance of power in our hands. The right hands,” Stane continued softly, speaking right into Tony’s ear. Tony didn’t know if he did it on purpose or not, but it was creepy and invasive and he wanted to cry right then and there, too many mixed emotions welling up to blur his vision. Stane sighs and pulls away.

“I wish you could've seen my prototype,” Stand mentions as he packs up after himself, putting the reactor in a plastic box, where it fit snugly in the space dedicated to it. “It's not as… Well, not as sleek as yours or your friend’s, but it gets the job done. All I needed was one little piece, sooner rather than later.”

He held the box up a bit. “Guess killing you frees up my afternoon, though, thanks for that. Go get everything set up all nice and neat.” Tony watched Stane stand, letting out a soft groan of effort.

“Goodbye, Tony. I’ll send flowers to your funeral. Roses,” he assures as he walks away. “Nice ones.” He stops by the doorway to throw a smile over his shoulder. “By the way, thank your father for me when you see him. The security passcodes and overrides he was so kind as to share with me when he built this place have never been so useful.”

And Tony was alone.

And he was pissed at his dad again, because wow, that really sucks, but he was mostly trying not to cry more than he already was.

Tony could feel shrapnel dig and wiggle in his chest like maggots and he was having trouble breathing past the pain and panic. He needed to get a reactor, he needed to get down to the lab, where Rhodey could help him.

He tried to move, tried to stretch, to wiggle. He could manage short tight clumsy movements now, the paralysis must be wearing off some. He tried to clench his hands, but his fingers only curled in a bit, nowhere near able to become fists. It was like something was pushing him back, making every movement harder than ever before.

He took the deepest breath he could and tried to move his arm, barely anything happened in response and Tony swallowed his fear. He kept trying as time ticked on and the worms in his chest wiggled, sending odd sparks of pain through his chest and dread to pool in his stomach. After several minutes, he could move his arms, a few of his fingers, his neck, and some of his torso. Good enough, Tony thought, feeling hot and sick, sweat slick on his skin. He felt feverish and like throwing up, nausea in his stomach, the taste of smoke on his lips.

He pretty much just fell off the couch and knocked his head on his arm, which makes both his forehead and forearm ache.

Okay, step one down. Now I just have to crawl, Tony thinks, and he started moving his arms, clawing unevenly at the floor, trying to move his legs as he slid over the cold ground. The movement made his muscles ache, and he couldn’t move either of his ankles. His tongue felt heavy but he had to try.

“R-rho-ee,” Tony slurred past half numb lips. “Jah-is.”

Tony coughed past split that pooled in his throat as he couldn't move his throat right or the muscles inside to swallow it. He felt disgusting and pained and scared, blood dripping from his ears, tears drying sticky and hot on his sweaty face, spit down his lips and chin he couldn’t wipe away.

He kept crawling, and every motion forced him to focus everything on it.

Suddenly he heard something, a voice, Rhodey’s voice.

“Jarvis?! Tony! Tony where are you? _JARVIS!_ What the _hell_ is going on, why aren’t you responding?! What the hell is-?!” Rhodey cut off as he stormed into the hall and he paled when he saw Tony on the ground. Tony tried reaching for him and knocked himself off balance, slipping down to lay face down on his chest. Having the casing press into his chest hurt and he coughed on instinct, which sent spasms of hot needle points down his chest and lungs and heart.

“Fuck! Tony!” Rhodey shouted and bolted over, dropping to his knees and trying to help Tony into a sitting position, half holding him. “Fuck, fuck! What the fuck-?”

“Rho-ee,” Tony slurs, and he puts his head on Rhodey’s shoulder. “S-sta-anne. Took. Ah- arc,” he managed to puff out. “C-cahn’t… m-move.”

“Okay, fuck, fuck fuck, fuck!” Rhodey panicked. “I’ve got you, just hold on.” Rhodey pulls Tony’s arm around his head and slides his other arm around Tony’s waist. Fireman’s carry. Oh boy, this isn’t going to be fun at all, Tony think in agreement, but he can’t help the rush of hope and relief. Rhodey hefts him up with a grunt and Tony coughs as the arc casing is pressed into his chest again.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Rhodey rushes out and rushes through the halls, back down to the labs, where he shifts to punch in the password and shoves open the door so hard it cracks against the wall. Rhodey rushes to put him down by a workbench, setting him on the desk oh so gently and then rushing off.

Tony can move his head enough to watch Rhodey rush over to where the old arc was, rummaging through the recycling bin before bolting back over, it in hand, and hovering over Tony. “You’re gonna be fine,” Rhodey assures desperately, reaching into Tony’s chest with the wires there and plugging them into the electromagnet there.

The burning taste of palladium greets him instantly and he gags on it as the toxic power courses through him. He gasps when the pressure on his chest eases and jerks as he coughs.

“Tony, Tony, sweetheart,” Rhodey says, hands on Tony’s shoulders, then fluttering to his face, thumbs wiping away half dried tears that feel tacking on his face. “Okay?”

Tony blinks up at Rhodey and nods once because he can manage that past the lump in his throat. All the tears he had been pushing down, pretty unsuccessfully to that point broke through the damned Tony brought his own hands up to cover his face as he choked out a sob. Rhodey gathers him up, climbing up onto the desk with him and held him close, rocking him back and forth.

“You have to stop almost dying on me, you butthead,” Rhodey managed, voice thick.

Tony nodded in reply, squeezing his eyes closed.

“Hzzvvvv-oooo--ooooonnnnn---eeeeeeeezvvveetettt!” came over the intercom and they both looked toward the nearest camera.

“JARVIS?” Tony croaked out. “Buddy?”

Loud shrieking static was his reply that warped into some technologic scraping sounds. It sounded painful and Tony clutched at Rhodey as they waited for the noise to end.

“ZZZZZZZZZZZZZVVVVVVVVVVVVVVTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-TONY!”

JARVIS’ hologram burst into existence a few feet in the air, dropping like a brick, slamming head and torso first into a table and sending JARVIS sprawling. It looked like it hurt, especially with all the flailing and the noise that made, a loud messy _clang_.

“SIR!?” JARVIS shouted desperately, voice tinged with static and feedback, pulling himself up with the nearest bench. He looked wrecked, disheveled, and parts of him were flickering in and out of existence in static. He didn’t have a left leg, Tony could see that his arms looked blocky and wrong, textures not loading right as JARVIS struggled to get his code back in order.

“Jay!” Tony gasped.

JARVIS managed to summon a leg, but things must still be off because his foot vanished under him only a few steps toward them. He hit the ground again and pushed up, looking troubled.

“I’ve never had such issues with my holograms, I don’t know what’s happening,” JARVIS explained tensely, finally making his way over to them and settling his hands on their shoulders, looking concerned as his face flicked in and out of existence, like he got smacked in the face with a bat made of static. “Are you okay, sirs? What happened? I can’t access as much as the security system as I should be, and you appear distressed and the-” JARVIS cut off, looking at the arc in Tony’s chest. “That is _not_ the replacement reactor.”

“No,” Tony said and coughed. “It’s not. Stane shut down the security and you with passcodes Howard gave him when he had the house built. He took the reactor right out of my chest.”

The grip on Tony’s shoulder tightened and a dark look crossed JARVIS’s face. “When I get my hands on that man, he will regret being born,” JARVIS growled.

“We have to go,” Tony said suddenly.

“What?” Rhodey asked, confused and alarmed.

“He’s going to put the reactor in his suit. You know, the suit we agreed to destroy before he ever powered it on because of its destructive capabilities?” Tony said anxiously, voice rising. “If Stane finds out SHIELD is after him, he’s going to make sure he isn’t captured, one way or another. We need to go stop him,” Tony urged. “Before he kills people!”

“Okay, okay, we’ll get suited up,” Rhodey agreed. “You said you couldn’t move, is everything okay now?”

Tony wasn’t sure, so he tested his limbs, wiggled his fingers bent his knees and rolled his shoulders.  Tony couldn’t really feel his feet and one knee wouldn’t quite move when he tried to maneuver it. “Um. Mostly.”

“Okay then no, we’re going to wait until you’re clear to fly and then we’ll go,” Rhodey corrected firmly. “You are my priority. Not SHIELD, not Stane… Well, maybe Stane, but only because I want to _murder_ him.”

Tony wanted to argue and Rhodey glared at him until he relented.

“Okay, good,” Rhodey said. “JARVIS, stay with Tony while I go get some wet wipes and the first aid kit.”

“I’m fine,” Tony tried.

“You have blood dripping out of your ears, Tony. You are very far from fine,” Rhodey snapped back. “And your shirt has a hole burnt into it, and there’s probably damage inside the arc casing we need to fix if that’s the case. You almost died and we are going to make sure that’s not a possibility before we go catch this bastard.”

Rhodey ran to the door and up the stairs as JARVIS sat beside Tony, working his glitches out.

“I’m fixing myself as fast as I can,” JARVIS told him. “Don’t worry about me. Are you in any pain?”

“A little, but  I can deal with it,” Tony admitted.

Rhodey came back a few minutes later with the kit and wipes. He cleaned up Tony’s face for him, which was a little odd, but he could pretend that it wasn’t if he closed his eyes, and Rhodey put burn cream around the reactor, where the heat from the device that pulled the arc out of his chest did leave red marks.

Rhodey took a brief look inside the casing to see if Stane had cut through the securing components and noted that though there was damage, it looked like some adjustments could be made to make it functional with what was existing. Rhodey made those adjustments in a few minutes, and the arc was much more secure in the casing by the end of it.

When Tony could walk in a straight line, touch his toes, and proved that he was in control of his limbs, they finally suited up. Tony’s stuff was right where he left it and he went to pull on his undersuit, zipping up to his chin, then putting on his vambraces, chest plate, boots, and lastly his helmet. He felt the suit connect to the arc, helping secure the device in his chest better through the damage, and Tony looked to Rhodey, who was clipping his retracted swords to his suit, his red reactor glowing and eyes burning despite the mask.

“Ready?” Tony asked as all his systems came online and the suit shifted to secure itself to him.

“Let’s get it on,” Rhodey agreed fiercely. “No motherfucker tries to kill my best friend and gets away with it.”

“Jay, see what you can do about getting us to that suit ASAP,” Tony demanded.

“Calculating route, sirs. I have a heads up on SHIELD, they’re mobilizing to detain Stane,” JARVIS replied immediately, bringing up all necessary data and tracking maps. “If I’m right, they’ll arrive at the facility with the Mark I Iron Monger suit minutes after Stane does.”

“Shit. Okay, we’ve got to move,” Tony swore and activates his boots and gauntlets, blasting down the garage and through the exit ramp, Rhodey hot on his tail, shooting into the night sky like a pair of comets. Darkness covered them like a blanket and Tony was too distracted to look out at the stars or the city below them. It

Usually Tony liked flying with Rhodey, there was nothing like it. It was like they were becoming the wind, what they were capable of opening up before them, but now it was tense and silent, just lightning bolts of motion through the skies. JARVIS had calculated the perfect route and got them to the Stark labs in record time.

There was no activity in the location, just the arc-reactor facility sitting silently, but there were several dark identical vans with very specific logos on them and Stane’s car.

“Oh fuck, they’re already here,” Tony hissed.

“Let’s get in and see if we can intercept before anything happens,” Rhodey urges, and they drop down, hovering in front of the doors as JARVIS hacks into the security system, unlocking everything. They fly in, landing on the concrete floor and looking around.

“The lab they have the armor setup in is that way,” Rhodey said, pointing. “Should I go first?”

“No, together,” Tony insists, and they push their way inside.

There are low murmurs from an open door ahead, the lock bust out by what seems to be a concentrated explosion. Inside the room is darkness, occasionally cut by light.

“Go dark, JARVIS, kill the speakers,” Tony whispers and he feels darkness spread around them as their reactors were covered and the glowing eyes extinguished themselves. Tony hears Rhodey pull out his swords and click them together.

“Going Darth Maul, are we?” Tony asks quietly.

“Is now really the time?” Rhodey questions.

“No. I guess.”

They strode to the opened door, which leads immediately into a stairwell, at the bottom, an open door, darkness beyond that. They crept down the steps, putting themselves against the door jam on opposite sides and looking in. The SHIELD agents were pretty oblivious of their presence, waving flashings into dark corners and speaking quietly to each other.

“Wheels,” Tony says. “It will, um, hide the noise of us walking.”

Rhodey nods and they both activate the function, stepping up as prompted. Rhodey made a little motion and they moved forward, then splitting off into the darkness, moving to cover the circumference of the room. It was dark, too many shadows, not enough light. The flashlights cutting through the darkness helped somewhat, but he still couldn’t see Stane. He was here, he had to be, this is where he was storing the suit.

“Target?”

“Negative,” Rhodey whispered. “Where the fuck is he?”

Tony ducked as a light swung his way and it passed over him easily.

The room, in general, was eerie. There were chains hanging from the ceiling, massive industrial equipment hiding walls, sickly white lights spilling from monitors near a workstation, sparking wires nearby. Tony found himself in a position to see two agents examining Tony’s suit, the original, the one Stane used for his designs.

“It’s kinda small,” an agent remarked, and look, Tony knows he isn’t tall, but that’s just rude. “And it’s not as nice as the ones those… other guys are using.”

“Probably a copy,” the other said. “It’s clunkier. Probably because they couldn’t replicate the suit the same way.”

That’s a great cover. Tony will use that. He takes a picture and sends it to Rhodey, who lets out a quick annoyed noise.

Tony stops rolling and watches an agent approach a particularly dark patch, peering through slowly swinging chains. Something uneasy settles in his stomach and he lets his repulsor gauntlets whirl to life, pressing them to the floor to hide the light.

“Rhodey.”

“See something?”

Rhodey is barely through asking the question when two white eyes appear in front of the agent, towering over the man and gaining height. Shocked, the man freezes, eyes wide and horrified.

“Engage, engage!” Tony shouts and JARVIS disables the function hiding the light of his eyes and reactor. Rhodey’s red eyes appear in the darkness across the way and his sword ignites.

Stane raises a massive arm absolutely decked out in weaponry and aims it at the poor defenseless agent, still frozen in place. Tony blasts it away with a swift movement and Stane snarls, whirling just in time to watch Tony slam into him, using the full force of his rocket boots.

“Stane on premises, in an armor, being engaged by the Iron Men!” the agent finally shouts, even though the rest of them have sort of taken the clue by now. Several of them are shooting, but they seem to realize that it won’t get them anywhere, not when bullets ping off the armor or undersuits like they’re nothing.

The fight is brutal. As Tony and Rhodey try to knock Stane off his feet, get him down, disable the suit, they get tossed around by a suit that has weight power.

“You should have just died!” Stane snarls. “It would have been easier for everybody!”

“I’m pretty hard to kill, Stane, I don’t think you have it in you,” Tony manages as he ducks against a punch and returns an uppercut that sends Stane back a step. Rhodey swings his blades, and Stane jumps back. He yanks one of the chains out of the ceiling and with a motion, wraps the length along the blade and yanks as the red hot metal starts to melt the links.

The blades are yanked out of Rhodey’s hands and fall to the floor, where it deactivates. Stane takes a purposeful step onto the sword, breaking the one side, as he swings at Rhodey, catching him on the shoulder and sending Rhodey into a wall. Tony blasts himself upward and tries to get Stane in a headlock. Stane wavers and tries to grab him, managing to rip his arm off of the suit and bodily throw Tony through a pillar. It smarts like a bitch, but once he shakes it off, he’s right back in the fight. Tony gives a note to self; thank JARVIS for the undersuits.

After the SHIELD agents evacuate, the fight is easier. No more bullets, no more people in danger, it’s just them and Stane.

“You little pissants are always getting in the way of my plans. I shouldn’t have gone right for the prize, I should have killed _him_ first, then _you,_ ” Stane growls to Tony, and grabs Rhodey as he comes in for a swift kick to the head. The large hand wraps around Rhodey’s chest and starts to squeeze. Rhodey yells in pain as his chest plate starts to buckle under the strain and Tony shouts in response, fury and fear burning into him. He sets everything to his boot gauntlets and slams into Stane’s chest, maneuvering his feet so he’s blasting them both into the wall.

The wall bursts out into metal and splintered shrapnel and they go sprawling over the busy freeway. They break through the back of a semi-truck, sending metal and broken bits everywhere before skidding to a stop on the road. Car lights eat up the black asphalt, shine off their metallic bodies, cut into darkness and flood the area in a sickly yellow light, only the lights from the city and buildings casting white over them. There’s honking from all around, cars crashing into each other to avoid crashing into them.

Tony shakes his head to clear his vision and looks around, spotting Stane as the man started to get up, looking at a car that squeals to a stop in front of them. Tony scrambles up as Stane grabs the car and hauls it over his head. Tony can see a family inside, screaming in terror and he panics.

“I love this suit!” Stane roars, thrilled and half-maniacal.

“Put them down, Stane!”

“Collateral damage, Iron Man,” Stane says mockingly. “I’ve been dreaming of killing you with your own weapon for _weeks.”_

Rhodey comes in from nowhere and skids to a stop in front of Tony, both gauntlets up. “Keep dreaming,” Rhodey quips right back and a flash of white comes between them as he blasts Stane back, full power. The suit goes flying back, but the car stays, falling to the ground.

“Oh, shit,” Rhodey cusses and they both move to catch it. The front of the car slams into their arms and they strain against the weight. It’s actively trying to tip onto its roof and they both struggle to set it right, muscles burning, suit energy being eaten up. Rhodey shifts and Tony’s leg gives out without warning, forcing Rhodey to fall to his knee as well as the weight increases.

“Fuck, sorry,” Tony hisses.

Rhodey manages to move his arm and push just right so that it falls back onto its wheels. The woman slams the acceleration and it’s only their positions that saves them from getting run down.

“She ran over my foot!” Rhodey exclaims, motioning at the limb with both hands, not sounding hurt at least. “That’s just ungrateful!”

Well, maybe not.

“Sir, we’re running on 19 percent power,” JARVIS informed him.

“Not great, keep me posted,” Tony ordered and they both look over as Stane’s heavy footsteps head toward them. Tony and Rhodey got to their feet, taking a few steps back as Stane approached, looking for something to hit.

A motorcyclist tries to dart between them and Stane grabs the handles, the driver going flying, bringing it up and backhanding Rhodey away with it in a fiery burst of gasoline. Rhodey goes sailing through the hole they made in the wall, crashes and clatters after him.

“Rhodey!” Tony calls out, reaching after him, but he fails to get by the leg that comes up and roundhouse kicks him across the street, making him slam into the side of a car and fall off onto his front, wind driven out of him.

“Master Rhodes is fine,” JARVIS informs him quickly. “But he is unconscious and his suit sustained damage.”

“Keep an eye on that,”  Tony struggles out as he pushes himself up, only to get a quick kick in the ribs for his efforts and his back to slam into a bus. “Ah!” He drops down to the concrete and knocks his head. He blinks past the static in his vision and flails as Stane grabs around his torso, hauling him up and then throwing him back down.

Oh, hello asphalt, it’s been so long, Tony thinks in a daze. He needs to think, he needs to get in a hit, he needs to-

“I am going to enjoy crushing you like the bug you are,” Stane says and he brings his leg up, foot poised above Tony’s body. He brings it down before Tony can move and Tony gasps as it makes contact, pain blooming along his front, air forced from his lungs. Stane grinds his foot against Tony’s chest plate and Tony can feel it start to crack along the seams.

Luckily, Stane lifts his foot before any serious damage can occur, and Tony takes the opportunity to try to roll over and get back up. A hand wraps around his head and neck and he struggles to pull off the massive fingers, kicking and hitting with his fists uselessly. When he’s thrown headfirst into the bus, metal splitting open like a soda can, he’s so dazed and rattled that he can’t even figure out where he is inside the bus, he can see metal and glass and the ugly upholstery, but he might be in the internal workings below for all he knows.

He can hear Stane say something, but it’s muffled by Tony’s position, his surprise, and distance.

When something gets shot into the bus with him and blows up into a fireball, flame races along his side and the force of the explosion ignites the gasoline in the tank, sending Tony sky high. Once orange and yellow isn’t covering his vision, he flails, twists and fires his repulsors just in time to catch himself.

He finally gathers his wits, now that he isn’t being knocked around like a ping pong ball. Hovering ten feet over the road, Stane looking up at him, the charred remains of the bus to his right. Yep, just about as he expected.

“Impressive! Your suit is just as advanced as they say, but I’ve made a few upgrades of my own.”

Tony blinks as the repulsors of the suit fire up and he eases higher. The force required to lift a suit of that weight would be… pretty intense. The size of the suit would also limit speed and agility. It was clunky and enormous, it probably turned on a _city block_ instead of on a dime. Stane's flexibility was greatly reduced by a suit like that, and his maneuvering ability had to be shit. That wasn’t even including the fact that this was Stane’s first time in a suit. It was so slow to accelerate too.

“Upgrades? Bitch, where?” Tony asked, trying not to laugh and failing to keep the challenge out of his voice despite it.

Stane is now sort of close, so Tony shoots up into the air, looking down at Stane as they rise.

Upgrades? Tony thinks, disbelieving. The suit Obadiah built was big and strong, but it was shit, objectively. Wait a minute. Upgrades. First flight. The icing problem. “Take me to max altitude,” Tony said.

“Sir, with only fifteen percent power, the odd are-”

“I know the math,” Tony snaps because he knew that it would be a stretch the second he thought of it. “Do it!”

He twists in the air and shoots up, keeping out of Stane’s range, but close enough to bait him on. He tried for a nice comfortable fifty to sixty feet through the trip, air cooling around them, clouds approaching and then left behind. The lights of the city faded until the only illumination was from the reactors and eyes of their suits, the burst of repulsor blasts cutting through the air.

“Thirteen percent power, sir.”

“Keep going!” Tony shouts, and he feels wind rush by him, he’s hyper aware of Stane on his tail. He thinks of Rhodey, and his eyes flick around the HUD to see Rhodey’s vitals already brought up in the corner, the steady heartbeat, the brainwaves, the damage report. He’s unconscious, and he’s a bit hurt, but he’s fine. That’s what’s important. Tony focuses again. Stane has increased acceleration, so Tony punches it, keeping out of range and gaining height faster.

“Eleven percent,” JARVIS comments worriedly.

“We’re fine, we’re good,” Tony barks out and keeps going, driving harder faster, and knowing that these power readings mean maybe something was damaged inside the reactor, otherwise the suit.

He feels it flicker in his chest, and he almost falters, but once it stays on, he ignores the fluctuation.

“Seven percent.”

“For Tes- just- just leave it on the screen, stop telling me!” Tony said, trying to focus. JARVIS does, however, and Tony watches the numbers ticking down, feeling the suit slow as they tick down. Well, if he’s right, Stane will catch up to him just before he hits three percent, which is just enough.

Something grabs onto his ankle, his boot fizzling out as it grabs and _squeezes_ , cutting off power and breaking instruments. It grabs Tony's leg like a vice, and it hurts like a bitch, it’s definitely going to leave a bruise.

Tony is pulled down and wrangled into Stane's hands, one around his throat, the other dragging his chest plate and pulling him closes as Stane squeezes. The suit can take the strain, but even Tony feels the starting press against his throat and he can feel his air getting cut off, pain sparking up to his head. He pushes and scrabbles at the hands instinctively as Stane’s faceplate fills his vision, blue eyes burning.

But Tony can see all the ice that’s formed, and he manages a wheezing chuckle as they continue to rise, grinning like an idiot.

“Very impressive Tony, but my suit is more advanced in every way,” Stane sneers.

“How’d you solve the icing problem?” Tony wheezes, sweet as a sugar filled kiss and cutting as a knife.

“Icing problem?” Stane asks, confused, and that’s right when the arc reactors power fizzles out and the suit goes dark and still, repulsors stopping cold and their acceleration decreases as gravity starts taking hold. The grip loosens pretty much immediately.

“Might wanna look into it, dumbass,” Tony says sweetly, and slams the side of his fist into the helmet with a loud clang, breaking off some of the ice that’s formed there. Tony keeps up his rocket boot and pushes the arms away from his body, watching the lifeless suit fall from the sky and shake with chuckles at whatever terror Stane is experiencing now. He almost wishes he could hear Stane scream, but he decides that he’s content to just watch, grinning with glee.

“Two percent,” JARVIS says kindly, and the suit drops.

“Woah!” Tony yelps.

“We are now running on emergency backup power,” JARVIS adds. “Please be calm, I’m attempting to lower you at safe intervals.”

Tony squeaks next time and Jarvis makes a sort of amused sound in turn.

“That was adorable, I’m saving the recording.”

“My least favorite roller coaster-” Tony yelps as he’s dropped again. “-is the Tower of Terror, this sucks!”

“Oh, boo hoo,” JARVIS sasses back. “This from the child who likes flying, dropping out of the sky to save himself at the very last second, driving me crazy with worry, and regularly gets shot at.”

“It’s not the fall, it’s the stop,” Tony says breathlessly and shouts again as he falls.

Eventually, he can see where JARVIS is trying to drop him, right on the roof of the building the fighting started in. He can see flashing red and blue in the distance and he had to maneuver in the air himself a bit, move forward to get on the building instead of near it, and the fluctuating power means he swoops too low and catches a foot on a guardrail, flipping head over heels and then landing harshly. He can hear pieces fall off his suit, bits of broken armor and cooling fluid leaking from the chest piece onto his body, which is gross, but manageable.

Tony groans and lays there for a minute. “Ow,” he whines pathetically, wanting sympathy.

“You big baby,” JARVIS says. Of course, JARVIS wouldn't be the one to give it to him, not unless he actually needed it.

Tony’s eyes flick around the HUD and he notices Rhodey’s heartbeat change. Was he waking up? “Rhodey? Rhodey can you hear me?”

A cough and a groan comes through the comm. “Ow, what the fuck?” is the response. “Shit. God damn, _ow_. Fuck. Tones? That you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, you good?”

“Um. _No,_ ” Rhodey says, half scandalized. “But I’m intact. My suit… not as much, but functional. What _happened_ ? Where _are_ you?”

“Roof, I’m at one percent power,” Tony says managing to push himself up. “I need to get out of this suit before it eats up the rest of the power in my arc.”

“You can have mine,” Rhodey says immediately. “I’ll, uh. Figure myself out and head up.”

A loud slamming noise alerts Tony to a nearby presence and dread and exasperation fills him as he turns. “Oh, son of a fuck,” Tony manages as Stane’s suit fills his vision, towering as ever.

“Nice try,” Stane grinds out, and his raised fist comes around to punch him in the head. Tony ducks just in time and then thrusts his hand out to blast him but cool air greets him and he realizes that his gauntlet had up and fallen off on him.

“Shit,” Tony manages and tries to stumble back but Stane manages to hit him with the other fist anyway, sending Tony spiraling until he hits the concrete.

“Tony?!” Rhodey shouts.

Tony can’t reply, he just skids to a stop and bolts at Stane firing a thruster once to gain height and then slamming his gauntlet covered fist into Stane’s helmet, hoping to damage it enough to mess up Stane’s shit.

He tries to fall back, to dance out of the way, but Stane surges forward and catches him in a bear hug, pulling him close and tightening around him like a vice. He isn’t trying to damage anymore, he’s trying to crush, and Tony can feel pressure building on his ribs, can hear and feel the suit start to crumble, systems damaging one by one with the strain.

“Weapons status,” Tony forces out because he can’t strong man his way out of this, he needs to really knock Stane off his game.

“Repulsors offline-” Shit. “-missiles offline.”

Fuck. That was pretty much all he was banking on. Wait- “Flares!” he gasps out and the area between him and Stane are filled with smoke and hot red light. Stane drops him and Tony scrambles away into a hiding position, pressing his back against a wall.

“Very clever, Tony,” Stane allows, and Tony can hear him start to move as the smoke lingers.

Maybe he can, no, he doesn’t have the power. Rhodey should be coming soon, he could try waiting for back-up, but he doesn’t know where Rhodey is, doesn’t know the status of Rhodey’s suit. He needed to hold out, at the very least. Stane’s suit may be inferior, but he has weapons, size, strength, and power on his side. Tony is half an hour away from a dead reactor in most of a damaged suit. He feels like a bruised apple and he wants to go home. He does not have the advantage here.

Taking a small breath and blowing it out, he slides left and rounds the access entrance he’s pressed against. If he rounds Stane and jumps him, maybe he can scan for a vulnerable component and make the suit give out. Stane’s armor wasn’t seamless like Tony’s, he could see uneven paneling around the neck specifically, he just has to target it.

He waits a moment, watching the hulking armor take a step forward, still scanning around, crouching just ever so slightly, and makes his move. Jumping up, half climbing up Stane’s back. JARVIS starts the scans in an instant and locks on a mighty tempting looking part just behind the neck.

“This looks important,” Tony says cheerfully, and thrusts his gauntlet inside, grabbing hold, and then yanking out, wires stretching and snapping, sparking violently.

Stane lets out a yell and swears, twisting and turning to try to grab at Tony. Luckily. His range is shit so Tony can avoid him, but Tony is getting yanked around again by the motion. It’s like he’s riding a mechanical bull, and Tony’s own mass, forced to be held by one gauntlet because the other hand is flesh and weak and he doesn’t want to hurt it means that this rodeo isn’t going great. Adjusting to the motion is difficult, and he’s busy enough with that that he doesn’t notice exactly when he goes into range.

He does feel with metal hands clasp his arm and head, then yanking him forward and throwing him. He scraps the rooftop before clattering onto the glass ceiling above the reactor below. He’s light, considering, lighter than Stane certainly, with only part of his body covered in a metal suit, the rest only undersuit, but he feels the glass shift under him, threatening to break. He tries to hold still as he shifts carefully to his hands and knees. His repulsors are offline, he would fall straight into the reactor, which would undoubtedly blow up.

He looks up and sees Stane’s suit opening up, revealing the man inside. He looks fine, which is more than how Tony feels right now and he carefully watches, ready to react, to try to run if need be. Rhodey, where are you? Tony thinks desperately.

“I never had the taste for this sort of thing,” Stane says loudly to reach Tony’s ears. “But I must admit, I’m deeply enjoying the suit!”

Tony glances around as Stane approaches, boots heavily shaking the grounds, looking for an escape route. He can see a few alternatives, and he knows the glass supports are stronger than the glass, so he can run along those and then duck behind the climate control unit over there to regroup.

“You finally outdid yourself, Tony.”

He looks back at Stane.

“You made your father proud.”

That burns, and Tony can’t help the swell of emotion. Fear, rage, grief, anger, disgust; they sink into his stomach as his heart leaps into his throat. He shifts in place, moving to stand, to get ready to move, to react.

Stane brings up his arm, and bullets cut through the air as he fires his Gatling gun. Tony brings up his hands automatically, though nothing on him can immediately be harmed, except the hand he quickly yanks behind the gauntlet to protect it. The glass under him shatters and he falls. His flailing saves him, and he grabbed onto the support around him, glass cutting into his hand as he struggled to pull himself up.

His arc-reactor flickered and he almost slipped before he hauled himself up to see what was happening and lock his arm in place. Stane continues firing, breaking all the glass around him. His chances of escaping this are dwindling and he feels panic settle in his chest. “Ffuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mumbles frantically.

Stane lowers his arm and moved a bit more forward, hanging over the edge of the ceiling windows, on his own pedestal, towering over Tony, towering over everything.

“Trying to rid the world of weapons, you gave it it’s best one ever.”

The truth of that hurts, but Tony never meant to use the suit as a weapon, not in the way Stane meant, not in the way he was using the suit. He forces hot angry tears down, keeping his eyes locked on Stane.

“And now,” Stane says, and the arm he’s holding up now had missiles on it, big ones. Tony forces himself to keep his breathing normal. He could probably survive that, but the drop he’d have to figure out. The electricity of that? The resulting explosion? He doubts anyone in the building would survive. “I’m gonna kill you with it.”

He fires. The missile goes wide, explodes almost twenty feet away.

Tony lets out a relieved breath.

“You ripped out my targeting system,” Stane calls out and tries again. “Hold still, you little prick.”

The shot goes wide again, but closer. He’s running out of time. Tony struggles to try to pull himself up, but his power is too weak, the suit too heavy, starting to pull on his limbs. The next shot hits only ten feet away, and the force shakes him, his grip slips and he desperately pushed all power to the hand with the gauntlet, dangling above the reactor. He kicks his legs and grabs on again, pulling up.

Stane aims, and Tony can see it will hit him this time. He braces, closing his eyes and tensing up.

Then… an enraged yell echoed over the area and Tony’s eyes fly open, blinking. Stane turns, one thundering step to do the one eighty and Tony tries to see what happens, but it’s too fast, all he can hear is motion and then something hot and red punches out the back of the suit, sizzling and hissing, and everything goes silent.

Rhodey’s sword, the one that didn’t get stepped on, twists in Stane’s body, burning with red, hissing as blood boils and evaporates on it, as coolant leaks onto the laser. Tony watches the end, previously vertical to his eye moved slowly to a horizontal position. He can sense voices, but he can’t hear anything, especially not when the suit does slack and starts tipping backward.

Stane and his armor hit the skylight heavily, shaking them again, and now Tony can see Rhodey crouching on Stane’s chest plate, his suit a mess. There’s a large crack down the side of his mask and Tony can see light glint off of his eye. The chest piece is sparking along the left side, he’s missing a boot entirely, and he’s covered in dust and soot from the fire.

Rhodey stands shakily, and the sword powers off when he disconnects from it, leaving the blade and handle in Stane’s body. The metal groans under them under Stane’s weight and they freeze.

Tony is struck stupid, his eyes wide as he stares.

Rhodey hesitantly walks across the suit like it’s a bridge, carefully padding along the arm that was flung out. One boot clinks and slides slightly, one bare foot, leaving tacky bloody prints, goes quietly. Rhodey finally gets close enough to grab Tony’s hand and pull him up, the other hand grabbing Tony’s arm, carefully pulling him up, keeping a grip on his wrist to pull him along.

The metal creaks under them again with each step.

Tony can see Stane now, the metal plunged into his ribcage and stomach, not quite right through the heart, but definitely able to graze it. His face is still and eyes closed, clearly not breathing, a little streak of blood from his mouth to his ear. Rhodey stops on Stane’s torso, then letting Tony pass him down to the legs, staying where he is.

“What are you doing, this will give at any moment,” Tony whispers frantically as if that will keep the metal from breaking under them.

“He stole your heart, and that’s not his to keep, that’s-” he fumbles and they freeze as the metal screeches. “Fucking go, Tony,” Rhodey hisses at last, crouching slowly and bringing his hand to the glowing arc sitting prettily in the suit, the metal retracting around it for a more delicate touch.

“Not without you,” Tony snaps.

“If you go, the thing will have less weight and may hold longer,” Rhodey argues as the glass paneling retracts and he reaches to brush the arc with his fingers, trying to grab it and twist it. The side they’re standing goes give at that moment, it drops down a few degrees and then groans again, this time from the other side.

“Go!” Rhodey hisses again and Tony finds his feet moving without his meaning to. JARVIS, Tony thinks. Traitor.

“Rhodey come on, just get over here,” Tony begs, hauling himself up over the edge to safety.

Rhodey pulls the arc out of the casing and the structure groans again, it doesn’t stop though, it keeps groaning and metal starts giving. Rhodey bolts for it, which doesn’t help matters and he turns on his rocket boot just as it falls out from under him, only dropping a few feet before climbing again, and heading straight at Tony, who opens his arms.

He knows what will happen as soon as all that metal and Stane reaches the bottom, and he doesn’t even make a noise as Rhodey slams into him, arms going under Tony’s armpits and yank him along. The explosion is loud and follows right after them, a horrible mix of electricity and fire that chases after them, eating at Rhodey’s boot and foot, which he yanks out of the heat. The noise shrinks through the air and Tony is able to watch as the building starts breaking apart. Out of the fire, a burst of focused energy blasts into the clouds and sky above like the world's most dangerous beacon, fire twisting and consuming everything around it as the ceiling caves in.

They start dropping seconds later as the electricity travels through Rhodey’s suit, turning off most of the functions, and Tony braces himself for a second impact. They hit the ground in the parking lot and skid into a van, cracking the metal and leaving a pretty big dent.

They both sit up and watch the fire and smoke billow up into the sky.

Rhodey coughed and Tony glanced at him. Rhodey didn’t quite look at him, he just held up the reactor to Tony. Tony took it and just held it in his hands.

“Thank you,” Tony says to him quietly, and Rhodey sighs, leaning against Tony and putting his head on Tony’s shoulder, grabbing Tony’s hand. Their hands, both their uncovered ones that is, stay linked.

SHIELD agents are quick to flood the area in their stupid suits and more vans arrive. The original agents sent to arrest Stane are who knows where, but the pair aren’t really approached, not until one particularly bland looking agent notices them, straightens his tie, and walks over with his head held high.

“Break’s over,” Tony mumbles to Rhodey.

Rhodey nods and stands as Tony taps the glass covering his arc, watching it retract, the arc in his chest sputtering again. He grabs the old one, the one trying to poison him, and twists, pulling it out. The suit goes dark and muffled around him, all he can see is what he can view through the slits in the helmet. Rhodey sort of ducks and holds his gauntleted hand out as the agent draws near, wiggling the fingers and letting the agent hear the noise of the repulsor whirling dangerously.

The agent stops and looks at the hole in Tony’s chest before he plugs the new reactor into the hole and the suit whirls back to life. It enters a reboot, much like the first time he fell out of the sky with ice along his seams, and Tony takes a moment to let the energy flood him again. It doesn’t feel as overwhelming anymore, not so much a punch as a hearty shove.

“I’d like to thank you,” the agent starts slowly as he watches Tony press his flesh hand against the chest plate, the protective plate going back over the reactor. “On behalf of SHIELD, for dealing with the threat we encountered during the attempted arrest of Obadiah Stane,” he finished.

His eyes flickered around to the areas they happened to be uncovered, Tony’s hand clutching the fizzling arc, Rhodey’s no longer bleeding foot, likely burnt from the fire, and the hand he left uncovered when he stood. He shifts his head to try to look through the crack in Rhodey’s helmet, and Rhodey turns his head to block his view.

Tony takes a breath and stands, putting himself right behind Rhodey.

“We’re done here,” Tony says tiredly.

“If you could maybe give a statement-” the agent tries and Tony waves his hand to cut him off.

“Tracked down an illegal arms trader selling to the Ten Rings, found him copying our suits, he attacked your agents and us, we killed him, end of story. Now, we’re leaving. Goodbye.”

“Wait,” the agent says. “Did you send the files directing SHIELD toward Stane?”

Tony looks at Rhodey and his thoughts race. He knows that he’ll be contacted about his claim on Stark Industries, and he should have an excuse regarding their injuries, he should have a reason beyond being the suit pilot. If Stane attacked him because he found out and emailed SHIELD, it would be a plausible reason, it would explain the interference too. If Tony warned the person with the armor that Stane had a suit and attacked him in his own home, he could use that.

“No, actually. The Stark kid, he contacted us. He said he found a leak in his company and that after he informed you, Stane attacked and almost killed him, told us that Stane was building a suit like ours, so we came to see what we could do.”

Rhodey caught on and nodded.

The agent considered that. “Should I send some SHIELD agents his way for protection?”

“I don’t know about you, but Stane seems pretty dead now,” Tony said bluntly.

“Hmm. So he does. How about that,” the agent replied evenly. “We’ll follow up on the tip tomorrow then and focus our efforts on a clean up here and an investigation into Stane. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Tony ties the wire from the half-broken arc around his wrist, then bumping his hand against Rhodey’s and Rhodey drops the gauntlet. “One boot each, one gauntlet each, think we can do it?”

Rhodey nods, threading their fingers together and they activate their suits on cue, rising in the air and cutting through the night sky, leaving the agent behind, the fire and smoke behind, and entering cold air as they shot through the sky hand in hand.

Tony felt exhausted, and he couldn’t imagine how Rhodey felt right now. Probably exhausted as well. Tony could feel his body bruising already, and he went through no less than two near death experiences today. They stayed low to avoid aerial tracking, and a few minutes later, they could see home in their sights. Tony’s hand was freezing, but their palms were warm and honestly a little sweaty between them. Rhodey didn’t even have a boot and his mask was cracked, he was probably freezing.

Tony planned it all out in his head. Warm bath, patching wounds, eating, maybe, and then bed.

God, that sounded nice.

They slid through the garage entrance and pretty much as soon as they were close to the ground, they just let the suits fall in a tumble, laying on the floor for a moment. Tony, spread eagle facing down, closed his eyes and sighed, letting his muscles relax, already feeling sore along his neck and back and torso and legs and… everywhere. Rhodey, on his side, hugged his arms around himself and blew out.

Tony needed to say something he needed to… “Thank you, for… for saving me, and for… everything and I’m sorry you got- you got caught up in all my bullshit like murderous godfathers and-”

Tony cut off as Rhodey grabbed his shoulder plate and dragged him closer, then pulling Tony to settle under his chin. “Shut up,” Rhodey said tiredly as he threw his arm around Tony’s back. “I love you so much, but just please stop it.”

“Okay.”

They stayed like that for an hour, half dozing. JARVIS, in his hologram, hovered over them, quietly bringing tools over to get pieces of damaged armor off of their bodies as they rested for the moment. Their boots, their cracked and damaged chest plates, gauntlets, helmets.

Tony was drowsy and his eyes closed, but he distinctly heard, “You did so well, sirs, it’s alright, I’m here now, you just relax. I can take it from here.”

He noted the injuries they sustained and fussed over them like a frazzled parent. He managed to wrangle them back up to their feet once they were down to just undersuits, supporting Rhodey because of his cut up, burnt foot, informing Tony that he actually had two cracked ribs, which would explain the pain starting to throb in his side and why breathing hurt.

But Rhodey broke two from getting hit with the motorcycle, so… but it was better than internal bleeding, which the suit protected him from.

JARVIS ran them a bath and he actually stayed to help them scrub off as they leaned against each other tiredly. From there, JARVIS sat them down on the lip of the tub, towels over their shoulders, and systematically patched them up, their bruises, burns, breaks. They both had a scattering of bruises on their torsos, some worse than others, and Tony had a nasty ring wrapped around his leg where Stane grabbed him. JARVIS picked glass out of Rhodey’s foot and put burn cream on the rest of it. It was just first degree, really, it would heal fine, but the cream would help. After that, he wrapped it up in gauze and put a sock over it.

JARVIS tapped their ribs and checked them both for concussions. Luckily, neither of them had them. JARVIS gently prodded Tony’s neck, looking for any sign of serious injury and then turned his attention to how Rhodey sort of had a black eye going on. JARVIS went and got an ice pack as they sat on the bed in just boxers and bandages. Before he went, he did put some pain meds in their hands and leave a glass of water before he vanishes in front of them, relocating to bring back the ice packs quicker. Very efficient.

“So, when SHIELD shows up tomorrow, what are we going to tell them?” Rhodey asked.

Tony squinted at him, feeling too tired to think of a good response, sipping at the water.

“Okay, I’ll rephrase,” Rhodey said. “So, Stane tried to kill you and I stopped him. How did that all happen in this house before we called Iron Man?”

Tony rubbed his temples and held out the glass to Rhodey who took it to pop his own pills and wash them down. “Let’s try to keep it simple and close to the truth. He paralyzed me, was about to kill me, you stumbled in and stopped him. How about he was going to shoot me? And you wrestled the gun away. He punched you, black eye, and ran when you pointed the gun.”

“Not a terrible idea, sirs. I’ll see what I can do with that and then stage the living room to reflect it,” JARVIS said from the ceiling, walking in a few moments later with the ice pack in question. “I’ll brief you in the morning, but until then, you need to rest.”

Tony lets out some mumbled gibberish, and JARVIS hauls him up from under his arms to put him a little further up, head on the pillow now. Rhodey crawls up after him and lays face down. He makes an uncomfortable noise and flips to his front. “Ribs,” he says shortly.

“The pain meds should be working shortly,” JARVIS soothed, putting a blanket over each of them. “Now go to sleep. I will take care of everything from here, you don’t need to worry about it. I’ll leave on some piano music, and keep watch through the cameras. You are safe, I’ve written all access codes out of the security system, baring your own, and I will personally shoot to kill any person who tries to come onto these grounds without your say so.”

For some reason that was very settling. Tony hummed, let his hand flop in beside Rhodey to take and closed his eyes, feeling Rhodey hook a few fingers with Tony’s own.

“Sleep well, sirs.”

Tony drifted, feeling JARVIS push some hair off of his forehead.

* * *

Tony woke up sometime really fucking early in the morning and groaned. They felt achy and sore and like dying, but also incredibly thirst and in desperate need of orange juice. Rolling over, Tony padded through the house to the kitchen, bare feet silent on the smooth concrete, rubbing at their eyes.

JARVIS silently appeared beside him. “How are you feeling, sir?”

“Terrible,” Tony replied and pulled open the refrigerator door. “And agender, so jot that down.”

JARVIS hums and then suddenly straighteners. “Sir, SHIELD has arrived. They’re stopping at the gates out front. Would you like me to let them in?”

Tony squints at him, wrinkling their nose in disgust, still tired and exhausted and now annoyed that people wake up this early, earlier than this even. “Not really. But, like… I should, shouldn't I?”

“Perhaps,” JARVIS replies.

“Then yeah, I guess. For a bit.” Tony pulls out the orange juice and sits at the counter, facing out into the living room.

“I’ll direct them here, until then, I’ll explain what happened last night. Stane disabled the security systems and let himself in. As you emailed SHIELD the information, he paralyzed you and spoke about his plans and the armor. He strangling you, which will explain the bruises on your neck-”

“I have bruises?” Tony asked, surprised, touching their neck.

“Yes, I have been monitoring you closely for any sign of damage or restricted breathing through the night, but it appears that bruises were the only effect. When Master Rhodes came up from the lab and saw what was happening. He yanked Stane’s off of you and they fought. Stane punched him with his free hand and Master Rhodes staggered into the glass side table, resulting in him stepping on glass and cutting his foot. However, he did get a large sliver of glass and threatened Stane with it. Stane ran, but he didn’t leave, he went down to the labs to take a specific part he needed to complete his suit, a power source, having the access codes as Master Rhodes went to check on you and try to figure out what was wrong, later contacting the armored men. I have taken the liberty of staging the area. The blood is actually real, I used one of the sterile syringes from the first aid kit. I woke Master Rhodes up to ask first, of course. He was a little out of it, but he agreed. I simply mimicked his size and foot shape and how he would react in the situation.”

“Okay, weird, but I admire your commitment.”

“In terms of injuries, you’ve suffered merely the bruising, but lingering effects of the paralytic device do include headaches as well as joint and muscle pain.”

“I love you,” Tony said, and after a few moments, the SHIELD agents ring the doorbell. “Here we go,” Tony says, and takes the juice with them.

Tony answered the door and squints at the SHIELD agents. “We don't give money. We don't like charities. We don't buy raffle tickets.”

They looked confused.

“Are you telling me neither of you have ever seen the movie Matilda?” Tony asked, incredulously. “Jesus Christ, your organization really is made up of robots. Buy a personality, better yet, manufacture one in the lab you grow your emotionally absent agents in.”

“Mr. Stark, we’re here on behalf of SHIELD,” the first agent says, unruffled.

“Of this I am aware.”

“I’m Agent Rodman, this is Agent Martins. We were told to question you regarding the information you sent to SHIELD about Obadiah Stane.”

“So um…” Tony rubs their head. “Listen, it is very early-”

“It’s… nine in the morning and you’re already awake,” the other says, confused.

“I got up for _juice_ ,” Tony said, shaking the bottle they held. “Not for you, and not for your questions. I was thirsty, and your visit coincides with my juice retrieval. I had a very bad night yesterday, I am sore, and I want to go back to bed, so forgive me for being short when people try to tell me that nine AM isn’t early.”

“I’m very sorry, sir. Can we come in?”

Tony stepped out of the way and motioned them on. The agents stepped inside and started looking around.

“It was reported that you were attacked by Obadiah Stane, can we see the scene of the crime before we start our interview?”

“Yeah, this way,” Tony says, and walks them to the living room, where they scan the area, noting the glass and blood. One of them began taking pictures and the second came to stand near Tony, pulling out a small notebook.

“Could you give me an account of what happened for our report?” he requested, readying his pen.

“Um. Yeah, so, basically, I came to Malibu to get some old files from the Stark Industries servers for some projects I’m working on, with my best friend, Rhodey, and we noticed that Stane had a secure ghost file, which was pretty weird,” Tony said, planning what he was going to say on the fly, knowing that JARVIS had him covered. “When I opened it, I found a bunch of sales I knew weren’t right, not for the locations and prices they were selling at. Basically, I found out that Stane was double dealing to terrorists. And there was…” Tony swallowed, the emotion actually hitting him this time.

“A video, the Ten Rings sent to Stane, saying that he hired them to kill Howard and I. It was… not an easy thing to watch. I put all the information on a flash drive, and we got the hell out of there before Stane noticed anything. We’ve been staying on the down low for a while here, if Stane tried to kill me once, he’d probably try again, especially if I found out. But last night we decided that it was safe enough to send the information to you guys. Like, pretty much five seconds after I sent the email, Stane used one of our paralytic sound devices on me.”

“Paralytic sound device?”

“It was…” Tony waved a hand. “Old design, not approved by the board. I was working on non-lethal weapons at the time. Anyway, Stane got in because Howard gave him the access codes when this house was built. Which I have rectified! So I was terrified and unable to move, and Stane started talking about how I shouldn’t have mettled, how I should have died in Afghanistan, how Iron Man was already making a mess of everything. He seemed, like, sound of mind, but fucking dangerous and scary, like a serial killer. He mentioned that the armored guy wouldn't stand a chance when he powered up his own armor, which rang some serious bells, and then he seemed done with his speech, so he just put his hand on my throat and-” Tony broke off, sort of playing it up.

“I thought I was going to die, I couldn’t breathe, and everything was sort of getting dark around the edges, but then my friend came up from the labs and saw what was happening, perfect timing from an avenging angel, I swear to Tesla. He saw what was happening and pulled Stane off of me and, well, I could kind of only look forward, but they were fighting and they broke the side table and Rhodey threatened Stane with a piece of glass and he ran off. Then Rhodey was checking up on me, when his foot was all cut up and bleeding from the glass and we had to wait out the paralytic.

“We found out later that he stole some stuff from the lab, this clean energy power source I’ve been tinkering with before he actually left, and we contacted the armored guys. I am a genius, after all. And before you ask, I am not telling you how because I know you government types. You’ll just try to get him to do stuff for you or whatever.”

Tony took a swig of orange juice and pointed in a vaguely threatening manner.

“I see,” the agent said, not delighted by that. “Can we speak with this, “Rhodey” about last night’s events, then?”

“He might be still sleeping,” Tony hedged. “He was when I got out of bed.” Tony noted a shift in the agent's expression and then added. “For my juice!” They shook the bottle and it almost slipped out of their hands.

“Tony? Where you at?” Rhodey called from down the hall, and then limped into view, glancing at the agents. “Uh…”

“It’s SHIELD, darling. I left for juice and got government agents instead, it’s quite unfortunate.” Tony said in his best rich housewife voice.

“Sounds like,” Rhodey agreed, and crossed the room to stand beside Tony, crossing his arms. His black eye isn’t looking any better, but at least it’s not swollen. The agent scans him up and down, lingering on his injured foot being sort of held off the ground as Rhodey leaned on his good leg.

“Can I have your name for the record?” the agent asks.

“James Rupert Rhodes,” Rhodey replied. Tony snores into their juice and Rhodey gives them a look. “Oh, like you’re one to talk, Edward. How are your sparkles, you vampire?”

Tony shoots Rhodey the most betrayed look they can physically muster and puts a hand over their heart, mouth open a bit, as if gasping in indignation.

“That’s what I thought,” Rhodey says and Tony listens as he uncomfortably recounts his encounter with Stane. JARVIS must have told Rhodey what Tony had said because their stories line up perfectly. They are so in sync, Tony loves that. After a while, the agents decide they have enough and leave.

JARVIS pops into existence and peers around the corner as they let themselves out.

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” JARVIS says after the door closes.

“To be fair,” Rhodey said. “You did a really good job staging everything.”

“Of course I did,” JARVIS says, half affronted as he turns to look at them. “I am brilliant. I was designed that way.”

Tony smiles at him and JARVIS winks back, then vanishing.

“Sir, I’ve taken the liberty of reviewing all contracts and legal documents regarding your ownership of Stark Industries, and have confirmed that the company in its entirety goes to you. Stane’s death and the major details regarding it have been released to the public and news organizations are already requesting interviews and the like. I’ve taken the liberty of leaking some information to select organizations. I would like to know what you want me to do with the video, however.”

The video.

Tony tries to think, but they don’t… they just don’t know. But at the same time, they want all memory of Stane to go into a trash heap of all the violent greedy things he did.

“Let loose the dogs of war, JARVIS, and get me a meeting with the Board of Directors, ASAP. Rhodey, let's clean ourselves up and dress to depress, I want us to look so good that other people hate themselves.”

“Alright,” Rhodey agrees easily.

“JARVIS! Get my makeup and find me earrings, the most expensive sons of bitches you can buy!”

“Of course, sir.”

* * *

Tony steps out of Hogan’s limousine in front of the Stark Industries building looking like they’re worth more than the building and knew it. A gorgeous black satin backless shirt with a looped neck followed by a red cotton skirt that went down to their knees, a black belt with a gold buckle through the loops in it around his lower stomach, white leggings leading down to black high tops with embroidered floral patterns. Tony was wearing no less than two strands of pearl necklaces and really pretty Augure Ruby Pearl Earrings, which matched really well with the red and white, and had just enough of a floral touch to come together with the shoes and visible enough pearls to match the necklace. On their nose was one of their favorite sets of sunglasses, aviators with gold wire and clear red lenses. In their free hand, they held a black clutch with beaded and sequined embroidery of a number of muted flowers that they really liked. It had a detachable chain that was currently inside of it.

Tony was also wearing quite a bit of makeup, mostly concealer for the bruises on their neck, but also a few touch ups to their face.

Rhodey was wearing most of what he had on the other day, the black dress pants and suit jacket buttoned once at his stomach, though now he was also wearing a white dress shirt, an expensive silver and black watch, designer dress shoes with red socks to match Tony’s skirt and rubies, and black aviators that had mirrored lenses, partially to conceal the black eye, partially to intimidate. He was wearing two rings, as was Tony, and they looked goddamn _striking_ together, Tony on Rhodey’s arm, heads held high as they walked through the gauntlet.

The paparazzi was equally impressed, what with all the flashing and shouting. Tony made sure not to smile, this was a serious matter and they didn’t quite feel like it anyway. “Remember to never look at the cameras, they blind you,” Tony said to Rhodey calmly as they moved forward with purpose.

“It’s hard not to,” Rhodey replied but did what Tony told him. The doors were opened by a pair of security guards and muffled silence followed them when the doors were closed.

“Part one done,” Tony said. “Now, to the elevators.”

They quickly placed themselves in the first set and Tony hit the button.

“Am I here mostly to stand and look pretty?” Rhodey asked as it started moving.

“You always look pretty,” Tony informed him promptly. “And partially, but you’re also my backup.  You can come in with how Stane was using the company as a front for his weapon sales, or how he literally tried to have us murdered. I am going to drop some major bombs and it will be spectacular. There will be threats involved.”

“Alright, cool. Can I sit in the chair?”

“If I’m not in it, yes. I will be standing beside it and leaning on the back, then. I expect you to look unimpressed and stern.”

“I am very good at that,” Rhodey offered.

“That’s why you have to job,” Tony said with a smile. “If you can lace your fingers together and be silent and imposing, that is excellent too.”

“I’ll speak when it seems most effective, with blunt accuracy and cold tones and glares,” Rhodey compromised.

“You are literally the best human being in the whole world and I love you a lot,” Tony said with certainty. The elevator doors opened and they started to the executive elevators next, not very far away.

“Thank you,” Rhodey responded, sounding touched.

“Muah!” Tony said and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Nice thinking, hot stuff.”

“Call me as many pet names as you can to make the old white men uncomfortable,” Rhodey suggested and Tony gasped in delight.

“Yes, we can use our uncomfortably platonic interracial relationship against them!”

“Is the dating heavily implied?”

“I’m going to hyphenate our names at some point.”

“You gorgeous cunning little minx.”

Tony laughs, smiling broadly. “Ooh, I like that. _Minx._ Thank you, Doctor Rhodes-Stark.”

“Of course, Doctor Stark-Rhodes.”

“Stark-Rhodes sounds better.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Rhodey mused, and the doors opened into the meeting hall. Tony lead Rhodey over to an imposing set of black double doors with silver handles and they pushed them open together, striding into the room confidently. The board was already sitting, looking tense and anxious, a few were sweating and ruffling through papers.

“Well, this certainly is a fucked up trash can fire of a mess,” Tony said aloud. “It certainly ruined my week, what with almost being murdered in my own home by the now ex and very dead CEO who was selling Stark weapons to terrorists.”

They now grimaced and looked very uncomfortable.

“Nothing like being strangled in the middle of the night by your supposed godfather!” Tony said, spinning the chair to Rhodey and letting him sit, Tony smiling with razor sharp teeth and leaning against the seat’s back when Rhodey faced forward and laced his fingers together. “I don’t recommend it.”

Miss Potts was standing uncomfortably at the end of the room, juggling a tablet and a stack of papers. Tony glanced at her. “Miss Potts, if you need to use the table to balance those, you are more than welcome. I am your boss now, after all, as the legal CEO of the company.”

“Oh, um,” she flustered and then pulled herself up, abandoning her nerves. “Thank you, boss.”

“In fact, take a seat beside mine, I have a feeling you are an invaluable member of this company and I’d like to hear your expertise.”

“The _secretary_?” one of the members mumbled at the end of the table and Tony pretended not to hear him.

“Anyway, I’m sure you’ll all thrilled to hear that Stane is dead and gone, especially because he was a murderer and traitor to the entire country and has ruined the reputation of this company in the span of, oh, twenty four hours, so I expect my claim of the company will go smoothly, am I right?”

There was a tense silence as Miss Potts found her place beside Tony, putting her things down.

“Of course there will be,” Tony said. “Especially when I say that effective immediately, we will be shutting down all weapons manufacturing-”

Noise burst over the quiet group, shouts and arguments and riotous protests, and Tony watched, still smiling coldly.

“ _A-hem_ ,” Rhodey said loudly, dangerously, and the crowd quieted. “If you don’t mind, this is a business meeting. I would hope you of all people would understand the concept of the formality implied in such a meeting. By which I mean; stop acting like children throwing a temper tantrum and listen to what Tony has to say.”

Tony beamed at Rhodey, delighted at his tone and everything about him. “Thank you, honey bunch,” they said fondly and then turned to the unnerved group of investors. “As I was saying. After all, the company is going to take a bit hit with this news, and it’s happening right now. People are very upset to hear that America's favorite weapons manufacturers were double dealing to terrorists. They’ve very upset to hear that the acting CEO himself had hired terrorists to murder people for him, they are very upset to hear that man almost murdered people himself. They’re very upset to hear that Stark Industries has become a warmongering company instead of a patriotic one. The only way to have the public change their opinion after this seriously fucked up nonsense bucket of bullshit is to make major changes, and frankly, I’ve been done with weapons since I was first asked to build one.

“So let me make this very clear; if we don’t do this, I sell all of my shares and start a company with the, oh say, hundreds of fully developed plans I’ve accumulated over the years for user friendly technology, sustainable and profitable green energy, and cheaper, smarter, more accurate medical technology, as well as the patents for thirty percent of the weapons that Stark Industries sells, and some of the ones we have in manufacturing and clean energy, to absolutely destroy this company by through popularity and public support for having good morals and public interest in mind, energy sustainability, and desired technology that you can’t begin to think of to outsell you by miles. You all know I can do it. Half of you have been sucking up to my father and I for all of my life, I’ve graduated MIT with more than one PhD, I have a higher IQ than all of you, except for my lovely gentleman here whom I adore, and I’ve had designer input on everything my father ever built since sobriety became a pipedream for him. Without me, this company will stumble and fall to pieces and I will win one way or another. The choice right now is to stick this rough patch out and come out the other side swinging, or jumping ship and letting it go down into the dumpster fire it set. Have I made myself clear?”

There was silence and the faces around them reflected the defeat and acceptance.

“Excellent,” Tony said pleasantly. “Let’s get started on what exactly I will be changing in the coming months and go from there, shall we?”

* * *

“...so effective immediately, Stark Industries will be shutting down all weapons manufacturing-” Tony’s voice was instantly drowned out by more shouting and questions and their name called over and over. Tony took a second to be disappointed before purposefully making the microphone screech with feedback. The reporters winced and flinched, sitting back down when they got the hint.

“I heard a few of you ask why I made this executive decision, so I’ll start with that,” Tony said. “When I was in Afghanistan- I’m sure all of you remember this story, I know most of you reported on it, I recognize some faces, some names- I saw Americans killed by the very weapons this company made to defend them. I saw that I, this company, my father, we had all become part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability. And when I came back, I wasn’t in a position to make this change, though I would have if the company had gone to me then.

“I knew that I, and this company, had more to offer the world than making things that blow up. It’s a system of violence that we help perpetuate to make a quick buck. Making more weapons doesn’t make peace, it makes more bloodshed on both sides, innocent blood included, it’s just more corruption, more greed, more violence. Over the past year, I have been coming up with a new direction for the company, I’ve designed new products, new technology to help make the lives of all people better. I have issues I want to address, I have policies I want to change, and just know that even though this change may seem sudden, do not doubt my dedication, decision, or the forethought I’ve put into this. I’ll take some questions now-”

The reporters burst into action and Tony made the feedback screech at them.

Once they settled, looking warily at them, Tony decided they were calm enough to speak to. “We’re going to do this in a calm orderly fashion,” Tony said. “This is not a high school cafeteria. The acoustics in here are terrible and I am too tired to deal with it. Let’s do it one at a time, please. Okay, you.” Tony pointed to a young lady in the front row.

“Can you tell us about your claim that Stane tried to kill you last night?” she asked readily.

Well, reporters never did play around. “Obadiah used his old security passcodes to enter my home around midnight and after using a prototype temporary paralytic on me, and gave a creepy monologue, he tried to strangle me. My gorgeous gentleman here managed to stop him and threaten him, and he left. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“You don’t look like you’ve been strangled,” a man mused loudly from the front.

“Yes, hello? Did I call on you?” Tony asked, exasperated, and opened their purse. “Oh, my god, you’re from Fox, no wonder. Who even invited-? You guys did that piece on how my _gay_ was going to be the downfall of the company three years ago. Don’t think I don’t remember that, eyes on you, bucko. Anyway, it’s called _makeup_.” He pulled out a makeup wipe and swiped it over the front of their neck, where, based on the reactions, purple bloomed into existence. Tony stuffed the wipe back into his purse. “Anyway, how about another question? You, with the lovely hat.”

“Numerous sources are claiming this is a direction you intended the company to go before the incident in Afghanistan and the events that happened last night, can you confirm?” the woman asked.

“Of course I can, I never liked building weapons, I got one of my degrees in robotics and computer engineering, guns and bombs have never been my focus, but I lent a hand in developing a majority of my fathers latest weapons because they were designed when he was drunk, and often had fatal flaws. I didn’t have any say in the weapon manufacturing business, so I settled with making sure the weapons didn’t fail in the hands of our soldiers or blew them up before they left their hands. Next, you, in blue.”

“What can you say about the Iron Man and War Machine’s interference in the situation last night?”

Tony paused briefly, taking in the name. “Is that what people are calling them?” The suits weren’t made of iron, that would be stupid. But there was something intriguing about the names.

“Yes. It’s based off the translation of what people in Afghanistan are calling the armored men.”

Tony looked at Rhodey and then turned back to the reporters. “Well, I’m grateful for them, because Stane could have done a lot more damage in his suit of armor then he already did. Honestly, I didn’t think Stane had the technological capabilities for that. But, well… Okay, one more. Uh, you, with the glasses.”

“Can you outline the direction Stark Industries will be headed in the future?”

“Well, I have an arrangement of electronics I want to release, and I want to expand our medical branch. I also want to put more focus in renewable energy as well, that’s the basics.” Tony gives a little signal to Rhodey and as he slides back just a bit.

As the reporters start getting rowdy, he says, “That will be all from Doctor Stark today, you can direct other questions to the PR-” and by then his voice is drowned out enough that no one can hear him, and Rhodey leads Tony off the stage, and through the door security directs them in, keeping the surge of reporters back as they make a quick escape.

Miss Potts met them at Happy’s car, looking a bit tense.

“Hello, Miss Potts,” Tony greeted. “I thought you were busy, you vanished after the meeting.”

“Yes, well, um. I wanted to speak with you before you left,” she said. “I am busy, I have to do some file rearranging and get things ready for the changes, and a lot of other stuff, but well. After you left yesterday, and Stane went after you two, I figured something was wrong, because you two looked unsettled, and Stane should have stuck around for his meeting. When he was officially late, I… I went into the office and tried to see what caused him to leave in a rush, and I found those files on the computer too. Stane came in and found me, and I- I left, I lied and said I was sending emails to the people he missed, but he must have known because later that night, I guess, because there were people in my apartment when I went home.”

“Holy fuck, are you okay?” Tony asked, putting up their hand and putting it on her arm, concerned.

“I could be better,” she allowed. “But I pepper sprayed them both, because I pulled it out as soon as I realized there were people there, so I was fine. I called the cops, they’re in jail, but I- I wanted to tell you anyway. Because, I- I want to put it in the lawsuit.”

Tony blinked at her. “Lawsuit. Lawsuit?”

“Yes, I… I started compiling a lawsuit on your behalf, and on behalf of all of what he did to Stark Industries, what with the embezzling and illegal sale of Stark weapons. I ran it through legal this morning. But um.”

“You are remarkable,” Tony told her. “Pepper, can I call you Pepper? I want you to put everything you can on the bastard. He can’t go to jail dead, but if you can sue for damages and such, for all his money and estates, that would be a perfect Fuck You to the dead motherfucker. It should go through, I can’t imagine it not, and I want to donate all of his money to any foundations that help refugees in the Middle East. I actually started one when I came back, low key, have you heard of it? The Ho Yinsen Foundation?”

“Oh, yes, I have! It’s gained some popularity as of late.  Should I add that to our charity roster?” she asked. “I can have that done.”

“Formally, yes. His house and personal possessions can be gone through before being sold, I suppose. We’ll figure it out later, I trust in you. You seem like an actually competent person. And I admire that. Listen, if you need a safe place to stay, you can come over to my Malibu house whenever you like. The security system is top notch, I fixed it after the Stane thing, so there are only registered passwords for a very few select people, but I’d be happy to give you one of your own.”

“I… I will consider it,” she agreed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.”

“You are so sharp! I like you. Did you see that interview I did?”

“Yes, it was… I was doing research on Stark Industries before I applied. I was impressed with how you came out as genderfluid.”

“Smart cookie! Now, we really do have to go, it’s been lovely talking, you have my number if you need it!” Tony said, opening the car door and pulling Rhodey in after them. “Door’s open too!” he called. “Ciao!”

“Bye,” Pepper said, waving. “See you tomorrow!”

Rhodey grinned at Tony and rolled his eyes. “I think you just like smart ladies,” he said after they pulled away.

“Why, I never!” Tony said, fake offended. “A competent lady who is willing to go the extra mile to cut a bitch from beyond the grave and pepper sprays murderers not catching my attention as a remarkable person who needs a safe place to stay, maybe?”

Rhodey laughed.

“Preposterous!” Tony shouted at him for humorous effect and Rhodey laughed louder, clutching at his chest as he threw his head back. “Harlot!”

“Harlot? I haven’t heard that used since the 1800s!” Rhodey sputtered as he laughed.

“So you admit! You were alive in the 1800s! I knew you looked too pretty to be true! Vampire!”

Rhodey fell flat on back over the seats, clutching his stomach now, laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes and Tony felt laughter bubble in his chest before it spilled from his lips and he planted his face in Rhodey’s stomach and grabbed Rhodey for stability as he laughed into Rhodey’s midsection.

“You stupid idiot,” Rhodey chortled. “No! I’m not a fucking vampire, I’m black!”

“Since when are vampires exclusively white?”

“Since every vampire movie to ever come out!”

“What about Blacula?”

 _“Blacula?! Motherfucker, what?! That’s a fucking movie?”_ Rhodey bellowed.

Tony nodded as he laughed, unable to actually verbally articulate that with the level of offended incredulity.

“That movie ain’t count as shit! Blacula _my fucking ass! What?! That’s a little fuckin’ on the nose, don’t you think? Who in their right goddamn mind would call a fucking black vampire Blackula?”_

* * *

Tony was staring at the ceiling, laying down on the couch back at the house, fingers tap-tap-tapping on their arc as they thought about the day. They had changed when they got home, and Tony was now just in baggy sweats and Rhodey’s MIT hoodie. Rhodey was in jeans and one of his polo’s, which seemed ridiculous but Tony loved so much, the consistency, the way he looked in them, the fact that Rhodey had a style.

Tony’s head was on Rhodey’s lap, and Rhodey was running his fingers through Tony’s hair, which was nice, as they watched a movie. Tony could tell something was up though. Rhodey was a bit tense, he was tapping his foot on the coffee table, his finger sometimes twitched instead of continuing along in an easy pattern.

“How’s your eye?” Tony asked.

“Oh, fine. Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Are you going to have to go back to your fosters?”

“Yeah, they called me when you were changing,” Rhodey admitted. “They were upset that I lied, or something.”  He sighed and tilted his head back, looking miserable. “I don’t wanna go back there. I fucking hate it. Or… or maybe I don’t, maybe I just like this better. I like living with you, and ordering takeout and watching movies and working in the lab, and maybe I miss JARVIS sometimes more than I should. I hate having them always on my ass because they think I need the supervision or whatever. They treat me like I’m not able to take care of myself. I think if I go back, all I’ll be able to think about was how nice this was and how I won’t have that anymore.”

Tony reached up to grab Rhodey’s hand and took it between both of their own. They laced their right hand’s fingers through Rhodey’s and cupped the back of Rhodey’s hand with the other, bringing it down to press a kiss to the side of his thumb, then just holding the hand there, thinking.

“Soon,” Tony said at last, a promise. “As soon as you’re 18, you can come straight here. I’ll be 17, of course, you’re older than me, but it’ll be a start. And I can come here. And before you think of it, you cannot adopt me, that is super fucking weird,” Tony pointed out.

Rhodey faked a gag and Tony laughed.

“It won’t be the same without you here,” Rhodey admitted.

“Of course not, I’m irreplaceable and gorgeous, I’m a god damn show stopper and we both know it,” Tony said promptly, then paused. “But it will be a start. No more rules, no more adults, no more worries.”

Rhodey hums and looks down at them.

“It’ll be a start,” Rhodey agrees at last.

“A start,” Tony confirms.

* * *

Rhodey left the next day, leaving Tony feeling lonely in the house. He had JARVIS go in and do modifications to the reactor casing, to fix the damage Stane had done, and make sure everything was up to speed. They scrapped the damaged suits and the dead reactor, and Tony made another arc from Starkhonium for Rhodey’s suit with some mild help from JARVIS’s manufacturing rig. JARVIS… JARVIS had been acting a bit differently since Stane got past him. He was much more… wary. He had started to go over the list of Stark owned homes around the country and have new security systems installed, his own systems. He started branching himself out a little more. He was in Stark Industries servers, security, and everything now, so he had total observation on everything in Stark buildings, now he had eyes on the houses, or he soon would.

He was already getting his manufacturing rig to the Malibu house to have a safe place to create the parts for the suits and assemble them. It was a good idea. Tony was still in the foster system, he couldn’t always fuck off to do Iron Man stuff like going to bought warehouses to do stuff, and making the parts near where he was forced to live was a bit risky.

But it was… interesting, to listen to JARVIS ask if he could install turrets in the houses.

“You… what?” Tony asked, confused and vaguely alarmed.

“I want to install turrets in parts of the houses, in case defense becomes necessary.”

“Lethal defense? Not that I blame you, I’ve felt rib cages shatter under my fist, I understand, but JARVIS, what?”

JARVIS looked at him impassively, which meant he was trying. JARVIS was a projection, he didn’t get ticks, so the ticks Tony noticed were purposeful not-ticks. So JARVIS was a little nervous.

“I will consent to it,” Tony starts. “If you have some non-lethality flung into the mixer. We can try to diffuse a situation before you get blood on my nice floors.”

“Oh, of course,” JARVIS agreed. “I should have considered the value of the flooring I may potentially splatter with human blood and brain matter.”

“I don’t like how you specify human in that,” Tony announced. “And curb the sarcasm! Dead people in the house is concerning, especially for cops and police and SHIELD and stuff!

“Can I make some modifications to the walls of some of the houses as well?”

“What?” Tony was just confused now. “Do what to the walls?”

JARVIS hesitated a beat. “Mechanical arms?” He wiggled his fingers as if in an example.

“JARVIS, you’re paranoid, get a new hobby. Turrets were pushing it, wall-arms is ridiculous. Think practical.”

JARVIS sighed, put out, and his form vanished. “Fine, but I am making this house run on an arc-reactor and having some work done on the building. The basement needs to be remodeled to fit the particle accelerator and my manufacturing rig as well as suit a nice work area and the cars.”

“You are more than welcome,” Tony agreed. “If you want to do some work on the living spaces too, I’d like to see your ideas. I’m…” Tony paused, looking out into the living room. “Done with living in the past. This place was commissioned by my dad, Stane tried to kill me here, and I’m tired of seeing furniture that I don’t actually like.”

“I’m intrigued. You know how much I like ordering furniture from IKEA.”

“JARVIS, have some class. Only half the furniture can be from IKEA. We have some standards in this house.”

“Oh, of course,” JARVIS agreed. “You know, wall-arms would be very helpful for that.”

“No. Don’t cross the line, Jay-bird.”

JARVIS hummed and that was the end of that. Presumably. JARVIS was an enigma. For all Tony knows, he installed wall-arms somewhere and wouldn’t know about it until JARVIS decided they were necessary.

Tony goes to the facility every day for a week to talk with the investors and board and start showing his plans, his designs, making arrangement, arguing about their hiring policies, arguing about how they should modify existing factories, arguing about the employees to keep and who have to be laid off, arguing, _arguing, arguing, arguing,_ day in day out.

Tony hates every single moment of it.

He was really tempted to shout, “I’m sick of you fuckers!” But he kept his cool like he was taught to and made it through.

After a long meeting, Tony is sitting in his office, Obie’s old office, and Tony’s father before that. He slept like shit, had a nightmare last night, he misses Rhodey, and he wishes this whole mess was just over already. On top of that, he has to go back to his foster family in about two days. Well, technically, they decided to place Tony in a new home because of this whole mess, deciding the last fosters weren’t a good fit, especially for letting Tony just go off and be a part of this disaster where he was almost killed.

Pepper walks in and Tony pulls his head out of his hands. “Congratulations, you’re promoted.”

Pepper freezes. “Sir?”

“Promoted. Co-CEO. I’m tired and apparently I need to go back to my foster home, so it’s going to mostly be you and me via video call.”

Pepper blinks. “I-”

“Totally deserve it? You sure do. You’ve been working just as hard as me, and I looked into your work for Obadiah. You were already doing a major share of his work because he was busy taking random secret trips to the Middle East and selling weapons to terrorists. You already pretty much know how to do this, and you have a degree in business. I have degrees in building shit. I am fucking exhausted. This is the worst, and my Rhodey isn’t here to make it any better.”

“Your- Rhodey?”

“Yes!”  Tony whines, patting on the desk like a toddler trying to get attention. “He’s really good at looking intimidating, and that makes the board members calm their tits and dicks and I am sad and miserable, so...“ Tony made a motion. “Promoted, congrats. I’ll be available to sign things and make video calls and do board member stuff, but this sucks and I can’t actually find the time to design for this company, like how I wanted to, with all this arguing. You can live in my Malibu house rent free if you like.”

JARVIS had gone through with some remodeling, and now the labs were totally secure to keep the Iron Man business private and inaccessible to others. The contractors had temporary access because they had started on the basement, but JARVIS projected that it will be done in just a few months. When they weren’t there, JARVIS was free to manufacture to his heart's content. So the house was set if Pepper needed a place to stay.

Pepper blinked and blinked some more.

“Pepper, I’m going to needs something out of you,” Tony insisted.

“I- okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay. I accept.”

“Fan-freakin’-tastic,” Tony says, throwing his hands up. “Let’s get started.”

It takes them a few hours to negotiate both of their exact roles in the company, as well as the promotion plan and everything else, but overall, Tony thinks it goes great. They have the agreement to be co-CEOs, with Pepper as the head of the company for the most part and Tony as head designer. Tony gives her all the access codes and whatever else she needs to be ready for the change and before he heads out the door he pauses.

“Oh, Pepper?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yes, boss?”

“Please, just Tony is fine. Remember? You got a promotion! Anyway, I upgraded the security system, with an AI of mine. He can help you with whatever you need or to get into contact with me, do you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind, but I’m a little confused. What do you mean exactly?”

“JARVIS? Say hi.”

“Hello, Miss Potts,” JARVIS greets from the intercom pleasantly. “My name is JARVIS. It stands for Just A Rather Very Intelligent System. Sir put me in the security systems and all Stark Industries servers to help boost efficiency. I’m available to act as your secretary, in a way.”

Potts blinks. “Okay. Thank you, that’s great, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Fully sentient and sapient,” Tony says offhandedly. “Be nice, he can go Hal 9000 on a bitch if he wants to. But, treat him right, and he’ll go Hal 9000 on a bitch _for_ you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you. Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

“That will be all, Miss Potts.”

* * *

Tony packed his shit up and locked down everything that had to be. The JARVIS box and all came with him. All his clothes, new ones included, were packed up and he flew out to New York.  He was picked up by his new fosters at the airport.

His foster parents were an old couple who had never had kids and were regretting it mildly, to the point where they just wanted to get a damn kid in the house so they could push them out again. They seemed pretty no-nonsense, which was a little boring, but understandable from CPS’s point of view. They drove a white minivan, enjoyed country music and spoke exactly like how Tony thought old people spoke to each other.

The house was nice, and they were pleasant, but Tony still didn’t want to be there. After a brief video call with Pepper to see how she was doing and go over a few things, he was sitting at the dining room table, texting Rhodey.

_Milliondollerbaby: i dont wanna say theyre old but theyre like sixty or smth_

_Rocketman: nice. Mine r young, like thirties_

_Milliondollerbaby: that’s old 2 you creten_

_Milliondollerbaby: if i ever get to thirty i want you to shoot me so my youthful face can be memorialized on the tabloids_

_Rocketman: lol gettin old aint that bad, like, can u imagin being 10 again_

_Milliondollerbaby: ew. Point._

_Rocketman: like, u could rock a cool beard._

_Rocketman: u can’t now, but when u grow facial hair that isn’t peach fuzz_

Tony rubbed the fuzz in question and narrows his eyes. Rude.

_Milliondollerbaby: rude._

_Rocketman: lol, and eugh, there’s construction on my road and it is so annoying, im tryin to read for the summer proj thing and i could be done already_

_Milliondollerbaby: ew, same. Not the hw, but construction._

_Rocketman: they’re replacing pipes_

_Milliondollarbaby: same._

_Rocketman: …_

_Rocketman: hey, what street do u live on_

_Milliondollerbaby: idk, Rosehill or smth why_

_Rocketman: is there a bright pink punchbug anywhere on that street_

Confused, Tony checks out the window, feeling a growing sense of apprehension at seeing the car Rhodey described.

_Milliondollerbaby: yes why_

Tony waits for a reply and is surprised when it comes from outside in the form of a loudly slamming door and a shouted “Tony!”

Tony runs out of his seat, practically rips the door open, and shouts, “Rhodey?!”

There, three houses down, in his stupid yellow polo shirt that Tony finds himself loving, stands a frazzled looking Rhodey. Tony almost falls down the steps as Rhodey bolts at him, arms outstretched.

They slam together way too hard, Rhodey kind of bowling him over, but spinning just right so that Rhodey takes most of the fall.

Tony grabs Rhodey’s face. “I didn’t come up with anything to say to you so I’m gonna have to settle with I love your face, no homo,” Tony says.

Rhodey laughs hard enough that Tony has to start laughing too. This amazing human being is everything and anything that Tony could have asked for and he is right here! “You’re close! You’re so close! I can see you every day, if I want. And I do! You’re the best and you live almost next door!”

Tony grinned and hugged Rhodey tighter. “Tesla, it’s so good to see you.” They stayed like that for a while before Tony broke the silence again. “Who’s yard are we in?”

“I tackled you into yours.”

“Oh good, because I don’t feel like getting up if somebody tells us to get off their lawn.”

“I’m gonna have grass stains,” Rhodey says mournfully.

“I’ll buy you some shirt cleaner, the good kind. Oxyclean or something. Or I’ll buy you new polos.”

“The mall has a good selection, wanna go get milkshakes?” Rhodey asked, hands clenched tight in Tony’s Metallica shirt.

“I would like nothing better, Platypus,” Tony says, patting Rhodey’s chest to accentuate the words. “I’ve got to get some shoes on and my wallet, but yes.”

When they kind of sat up and detangled themselves, they noticed two sets of foster parents staring from their respective porches. Rhodey’s foster parents were staring at them like they were adorable aliens and Tony’s foster… _grand_ parents had this odd look in general. When they stood, Tony brushed the grass off Rhodey’s back and grabbed his hand.

“Come on, you can see the baby bots and JARVIS while I get my stuff.”

In the end, they did buy Rhodey a new polo and shared a few flavors of milkshake, but later they let their six bots and JARVIS hang out at Tony’s, saying hello and playing and comparing themselves to each other. The army-bots were glad to see Butterfingers and U again, and they seemed to like Dum-E. Dum-E seemed to enjoy playing with Sailor most of all and gave Sweetheart rides around the room. They didn’t know how to react to JARVIS, exactly, but they exchanged pleasantries and JARVIS monitored them as they beeped and played among themselves.

“Wanna sleep over?” Rhodey asked as Jason and Butterfingers tried to wrestle.

“Do you still have that pajama set I got you?” Tony asked.

“...Yes.”

“Brilliant. Me too. Give me five minutes and I’ll be over with a computer and some movies.”

Five minutes later Tony is in a two piece flannel set of pajamas, a nice golden yellow, and a red robe with red socks. The baby bots are at his heels, and his carry his computer. Rhodey, in his light purple pajamas and blue robe and purple socks, waves him in as Tony helps his bots up the stairs.

Rhodey’s room is slightly more lived in, obviously, and they set up the computer on the bedside table, moving the table so it’s correctly angled and they can both sit on the bed and watch from an equal distance.

Rhodey makes popcorn and because there’s no soda in the house, they drink cold milk with it. JARVIS supervises the bots, but in the end, they’ve parked or sat a bit away to watch the computer screen. The resident teens feel bad for the group because the bots have a bad angle and are craning their claws or necks in an uncomfortable manner, so they put the laptop on the floor and shift on the bed so everyone can watch the Men in Black series.

The bots liked the characters and flailed at the scary parts, except for Sailor and Jason, of course, so that Rhodey and Tony had to soothe them.

They fell asleep snuggled up to each other during the third move, right around the part where Agent J’s father gets killed by the boglodite.

JARVIS turns off the laptop, herds the bots to charging stations and keeps guard for the night. Despite the day’s good events, hell the fantastic, once-in-a-lifetime reunion extravaganza of a great day, Tony had a nightmare and wakes wheezing and choking on phantom water, the sensation of locked limbs on his body and he jerks violently to shake the feeling.

Rhodey, roused from his slumber, makes soft comforting sounds, sleepily running his hand through Tony’s hair, telling Tony that he was okay, and that Rhodey would keep Tony safe, and how all the bots were charging safe and sound and even JARVIS has Tony’s back.

After a while, the adrenaline and panic fades and Tony hazily melts under Rhodey’s touch, shifting closer and hugging his best friend. In the morning Tony has bed-head, Rhodey needs to brush his teeth pretty badly, the bots are charged and overly excited, and JARVIS is hounding several wild bots, two hungry boys and needs a raise.

Dum-E offers him a sock and JARVIS kindly takes it before tossing it in the hamper behind Dum-E’s back.

Rhodey’s foster parents, Amanda and Jacob Hollander, provide waffles, the frozen kind, and all natural maple syrup that is way too cold and tastes too real. Tony prefers the syrup that tastes like high fructose corn syrup and definitely contains it.

“So whaddaya wanna do today?” Tony asks as he takes a drink of coffee. He grabs Rhodey’s socked feet with his own and passes it back and forth between his feet like a soccer ball.

Rhodey yawns. “I could show you around?” he offers sleepily. “There’s a cool park, and the library is pretty cool. I can show you where the school is too.”

“We could go to the, uh-” Tony snaps his fingers. “That place for lunch? The one with the cheese fries that we wanted to get but only went to the milkshake place because that was what we decided on beforehand?”

“Oh, yeah!” Rhodey says and steals Tony’s coffee to wake himself up.

It’s so good to be together again, having each other's backs and an intellectual equal. They talk physics and engineering, designing little rockets and computers, programming a new operating system and building Rhodey a new, nicer, computer. It had the same holographic capabilities Tony’s did and a superior processing power to Rhodey’s last laptop. Rhodey used his books to look up the correct material and format needed.

They also talked about when their new suits would be ready, Tony’s business with Stark Industries, and what missions they would be taking as soon as they could. They still had work to do, places to make safer, weapons to destroy.

They found cool little hipster coffee shops and started going just about every other day. They talked and brainstormed and waited for JARVIS to be done manufacturing, which was admittedly prolonged by the construction project that was the Malibu basement. JARVIS was only able to work at nights, for the most part.

One day, a few weeks from school starting, Rhodey was late for coffee.

Tony waited for a while, a bit nervous, before texting Rhodey.

_Milliondollerbaby: u ok?_

He waited a few minutes before getting a reply.

_Rocketman: shit, sorry, yeah, some assholes started pushing me around and shit, they threw ur textbook in the trash and now it smells liek rotten mango, sorry, im omw_

_Millondollerbaby: omg r u ok?_

_Rocketman: yeah, tbh i thought i was gonna get pumbled, but these two dudes flew in outta nowhere, one with a baseball bat n told the assholes to scram so i guess i got some backup or something now_

_Rocketman: one of them was this skinny white kid that dressed like a straight up punk and had tats even though he’s like our age and the other had the bat and gave me his number, like bro style, not like ur cute style_

_Millondollerbaby: punk isnt dead it just went to play baseball_

_Rocketman: i hate u and love u and that was bad_

They received their suits and Rhodey got his swords back. They started planning missions again, but eventually school started so they had to be smart about it. And it was so… boring. Rhodey wasn’t in his homeroom, his first period, or his third period. He was in his fourth period, though, chemistry.

Tables were in threes and the teacher told everybody to pick and that he didn’t care. Rhodey and Tony stuck together like glue immediately and sat next to this shy looking boy with curls and a sweater that was too long in the sleeves. As the teacher went over safety protocol, Tony and Rhodey brainstormed cool chemical mixtures for computer cooling systems that would be better and more environmentally friendly.

“Actually,” the boy next to them said. “You wouldn’t want to mix those particular chemicals because you’d end up making hydrofluoric acid which can quite literally eat through metal.”

Rhodey and Tony turned to the boy and blinked. Suddenly they moved in close, grinning like hyenas. “You like science?”

The boy, looking overwhelmed, took his glasses off and started cleaning them, flushing slightly and muttering something. “It’s just- just and interest. I- I like biochemistry and physics,” the boy mumbled awkwardly.

“You’re amazing and we’re adopting you,” Tony said.

“You can’t just adopt the man Tony, Tesla’s sake,” Rhodey said, flabbergasted.

“I, uh, I am in a group home,” the boy said. “So technically speaking I can be adopted, but nobody has.”

“That is the saddest thing I’ve heard all day, yeah, you’re adopted. I’m Tony. This is Rhodey.”

“Bruce. Banner,” he tacked on, holding out his hand. Rhodey reached around Tony and shook for him.

“Tony doesn’t like to be handed things, hands included. But it’s nice to meet you, Bruce.”

“Talk science to us,” Tony says, grinning.

Rhodey turns to Tony. “Internal combustion engine.”

“Ooh,” Tony said flirtily.

“Cybernetic anthropomorphous machine.”

“Ooh!”

“Uh, anti-electron collisions?” Bruce offered and Tony made a truly pornographic noise, bringing the back of his hand to his forehead and leaning back like he was swooning. Rhodey laughed and caught him. People two rows forward, directly next to them, and the table diagonal turned around and gave an incredulous stare.

They had lunch together too, it being fourth period, and talked excessively with each other. Bruce gradually warmed up and clearly appreciated having a conversation with someone who could keep up.

After school, they went to the hipster coffee shop, bought Bruce some chai tea, and talked some more.

“India? Wow, really?” Tony asked. “How was that?”

“Oh, not bad,” Bruce said almost absently. “It’s a nice place, the people are generally kind. The festivals and holidays are pretty spectacular too. There’s a lot of overcrowding, but it’s easy enough to walk around from place to place.”

“That’s awesome,” Rhodey said. “So you were just hanging around for three years?”

“In sum, yes.”

“Cool. I’ve been to Mexico, Japan, China, parts of the Caribbean, and Europe. England, Italy, France, and the Middle East once,” Tony said conversationally. “Never India. I should put it on my bucket list.”

“Tony _Stark_ , right? I heard about… everything,” Bruce said. “How have you been doing?”

Tony waved his hands. “Highs, lows, nightmares, whatever. I’m chill for the most part. Plus! I’ve found my Rhodey!”

“Your Rhodey?” Bruce said, amused.

“Yep. He’s my platonic soulmate.”

“If we’re not married by the time we’re thirty we’ll get hitched,” Rhodey agreed.

“Aw, platypus,” Tony said flirtily.

Bruce laughed, let out an amused breath, and took a sip of his tea.

Because of their advanced understanding of chemistry, one past the knowledge of the instructor, and this being plainly obvious, they’re excluded from most experiments on the basis that they already know what’s going to happen, the entire procedure, and all results before even handed the assignment. Instead, they’re given all the tests for the quarter and told to do them and prove their understanding. Having finished those tests in about four days, they’re told to pay attention to the instruction as it was polite, but do homework for other classes or mind their business in the back.

That weekend, Rhodey and Tony took a mission. They told both foster families that they were sleeping over at each other's. It was… violent. It always is, but after the town was liberated and civilians started picking their way through the streets, it felt worth it. Rhodey’s suit was flecked with blood, which stood starkly out from the grey of his suit but blending into Tony’s own. His swords active in both hands, standing and looking around with danger in his posture.

Tony stared at him until Rhodey turned around.

Tony felt of flash of something. Not fear, he could never be afraid of his Rhodey-bear, but he got the sense of why people called Tony ‘Iron Man’ and Rhodey ‘War Machine.’ He had an intensity, and the red of his suit, the sword that cut through anything, the glare of his eyes, and glow of his red arc was nothing less than intimidating.

Rhodey deactivated his swords, they retracted and were clipped back onto the suit, blending in neatly with the suit now that the glow died, but Tony could see dried blood, red stains like rust, on the circle of it.

He didn’t care, he felt nothing but contempt for the people Rhodey killed. There was nothing worth redemption in people who threw grenades into people’s homes to get rid of them, for people who shot children and adults alike in the streets. There was nothing deserving sympathy in people who ruled with violence and terror and death. Tony thought of Yinsen and his family, a man who lost everything, his wife and his children, to these people and hoped he either had killed the man responsible or would in the future.

The weapons were broken molten piles, the people were no longer overruled by men with guns and bombs, families were free to live without the fear of death for stepping out of line, and a few hours of helping the people, they started home.

Tony watched Rhodey fly through the air like he belonged there and thought of how Rhodey was a natural at adapting, a natural at what he did and wanted to be perceived as. Tony thought about how Rhodey slipped into the role of a celebrity with ease, how he stood in expensive clothes, wearing a multi-thousand dollar watch like they were the clothes he was born to wear, how he controlled the suit with the same grace and belonging, how he didn’t flinch from flashing lights, how he planted himself by Tony’s side and claimed it with a look, with a motion, with his posture. It was remarkable.

Tony grew up rich, he grew up wearing expensive suits and dresses and jewelry, and even sometimes he felt like he was putting on a mask. But Rhodey just rolled with it. He accepted the status knowing Tony gave him and he didn’t let it affect his mindset, he didn’t let it go to his head because he- because he loved Tony.

Tony knew this, of course he knew, Rhodey said it a lot. But thinking it now, miles above the ground, soaring through the clouds as he looked at Rhodey, he felt a blooming of emotion in his chest.

* * *

Two weeks after school started, Rhodey was contacted by Sam, who also went to their school but had different classes. Sam invited them to some 'shawarma' place after school with the rest of his buddies and encouraged Rhodey to bring his friends. Tony had no idea what shawarma was, but it sounded delicious. That being, Tony, Bruce, and Rhodey arrived at the joint to a group of six other teenagers. After introductions and ordering food, they started talking more and more.

Steve was the punk kid with tattoos that Rhodey was talking about when he got saved from those bullies. Steve was besties with Bucky, who was a tired looking amputee with long brown hair and haunted looking grey eyes. Natasha was the only girl at the table and she had a neat cascade of red locks, intense green eyes that stared and observed critically, but tried so much to be warm and encouraging, curious almost. She seemed cool as a cucumber but there was something unfamiliar to her, the way she looked at them all. Clint, a scruffy looking blond with bright bandages stuck to his skin and hearing aids in his ears, was apparently, an archer.

Tony considered him. “Hey, any chance you stabbed a cop with an arrow when you were picked up by CPS?”

Clint’s eyes went wide. “How did you know that?!” he blurted.

“My CPS agent told me about a kid who did that when I told her I punched a doctor,” Tony replied.

Clint laughed.

Matt was a blind teenager, no light perception, who was pals with both Clint and Sam. He had an intensity about him, and he kind of sought out arguments, but the kids shared enough of the same opinions that they started arguing about trivial or hilarious bullshit. He made so many blind jokes, which helped ease ant tension with annoyed groans, and had this almost palpable sense of justice. He also, apparently, boxed.

They met up the next day… and the next, and the next.

Soon Tony realized that he had eight friends, all with their own interests and talents and amazingly, they liked him. They liked hearing him ramble and argue with himself. They liked his inventions, even if they didn’t always work, they liked Rhodey, they complimented him (or them, of course, depending on how he was feeling) and his clothes. They didn’t care that he was rich, they only cared if he was… nice isn’t quite the right word. They were all kind of assholes, they bickered and fought and wrestled and teased each other, but they also were fiercely protective of each other. Kind of how like Rhodey was protective of Tony.

They cared that Tony was _Tony_ , and that meant the _world_ to him.

Tony slowly got more comfortable around them, sleeping around them, eating around them, talking about serious things and things with no substance. It was nice to be appreciated for himself, not just his mind or his money.

It was really nice to have a team, a squad as it were, and his science bros were engaging. He wasn’t really sure what they’d turn into, what kind of friend group, but he was anticipating the results.


	4. 'Steada treated, we get tricked (Pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhodey let out a breath. “My last foster family used me for my intellect, they only wanted my designs, my expertise in robotics and engineering, and it left a bad impression. When I came here, I didn’t notice you were doing the same thing until I realized you had never spoken to me about anything other than what you needed me to fix. I stopped doing projects because it wasn’t my job. I didn't need to do anything for you or the others. That’s not what a family is, even a foster family. It’s not making one person do everything while the rest benefit. Me living here wasn't supposed to be some sort of /Cinderella/ bullshit,” Rhodey snapped, and he hadn’t realized just how mad he was about it until he couldn’t stop his mouth from running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (LOL, this was 163 pages long and apparently too many characters for one chapter? Anyway, technically a double update.

* * *

 

The day of his parents double funeral was one of the worst days Rhodey has ever had in his entire life. He held the flags so tight that his arms were cramped for days and he was crying so much that his eyes burned like coals in his face. Tony was there, right by Rhodey’s side and holding his hand so hard it hurt to keep him from breaking apart at the very seams.

It was supposed to be just one more deployment, then done. Rhodey had been in the dorms of MIT, studying away and planning to graduate soon, so they wanted to use that time to push out one last deployment, they promised that they’d be fine.

They weren’t.

And it tore Rhodey to  _shreds_  in those following weeks.

The house and most of their personal possessions were put up for sale, but Rhodey kept the family photo album, his parents’ dog tags, and a box or two of his shit from his room and various trinkets from around the house. They let him finish MIT and get his degree in rocket science, but it felt like a hollow victory now. He wanted his parents to see him graduate, he wanted to make them proud, he wanted to go home in the summer and display the degree over the mantle.

He wanted anything other than this.

Tony was a constant presence, however, reminding him how his parents were proud, how they visited every chance they got and spoiled him rotten, how much they loved Rhodey. It made Rhodey cry every goddamn time, but hell if it didn’t make him feel better. Knowing that he wasn’t alone in carrying that history. It helped, Rhodey would admit guiltily, knowing that Tony had been through the same thing when his mother and Jarvis died. Tony knew how it felt to lose everything because Maria and Jarvis were everything to Tony. His relationship with Howard was icy at best and hostile at worst. They were always at each other’s throats with words and sharp retorts and it was awful to watch in action, a pair of spitting mad alley cats circling each other.

Tony got Rhodey off his ass, he whooped and clapped when he graduated, kept in constant contact, even as Rhodey was shipped off to New York to meet his foster family. It wasn’t easy, not of it was, but Tony made it feel alright.

He was nervous as shit but tried not to let it show. He’s got his parents flags and medals, clothes, his computer, tablet, phone, a box of parts, his tool kit, and Butterfingers and U. Why Tony gave him his bots is, technically speaking, beyond Rhodey, but he knew that it means a lot to Tony that he take care of them. They were… gestures of friendship, loyalty.

They were also gigantic pains in the asses. Butterfingers lived up to his name and U, well, she encouraged risky behavior.

So…

His foster house, or, as it were, foster mansion felt empty and minimalist. The room he was given was huge, overlooking some garden in the back. The room felt pretty sterile too, and he felt horribly out of place, sitting in a bed that was for him, but wasn’t his. It was too quiet, but he didn’t want to leave the safety of his new room just yet. Rhodey put U and Butterfingers on the floor, letting the bots roll around and explore. He unpacked, almost stepped on Butterfingers, and went downstairs.

For some reason, his foster parents were Tiffany and Brant Hammer, which made Justin Hammer his… foster brother? Tony, upon finding out soon after Rhodey’s arrival, started an entire thesis paper on why that was funny, pitying Rhodey, explaining why their stuff was shit tech, and dissing Justin. Rhodey was fairly impressed and amused, secretly agreeing.

There were people tending to the house around, cooks busy with dinner, a few butlers talking shit in a corner, a gardener taking empty pots into the garden, a maid mopping the floor. Honestly, that put Rhodey off the most. He knew Tony’s dad employed butlers and maids and such, but this felt different. It was clear that they all hated the job, but at Tony’s mansion the staff all seemed to like Tony at the very least.

Justin Hammer swooped out of nowhere, grinning. He came at Rhodey so fast that he just about jumped out his skin, alarmed at the speed and the unnerving smile. “Hey, James Rhodes, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Rhodey replied warily.

“Awesome-socks. Come with me, I’ll show you around.”

Having nothing better to do, Rhodey reluctantly agreed. The entire house is extravagant and bleach clean, new in a way that makes Rhodey feel like he was walking through an IKEA or department store. It was lifeless and cold, so unlike his own home, which was warm and comfortable and smelled like freshly cooked food more often than not because Rhodey’s mom and dad loved cooking together…

Rhodey shook off the sadness and refocused, releasing the grip he had on the front of his shirt, over his heart, over the dog tags. There are dozens of rooms, closets, lounges, living rooms, kitchens, garages, bathrooms, recreation areas, and Rhodey couldn’t keep track of a damn thing. It’s turning him clean around and too much of the house looked the same. He thought Tony’s house was bad, but that at least had that classic, English mansion feel. This was just cold, white, and open. It was the worst. It was a hospital disguising itself as a hotel.

Finally, Hammer shows him something worth remembering. A workshop, though a small one.

“Hey, cool,” Rhodey said, looking around. There are papers everywhere, tools scattered around, gun parts and designs left at the several counters around the room, and a small shooting range at the end.

“Right? My dad and I work on weapon designs here. R&D does a lot of work in bombs and stuff, but our mass-produced guns are usually designed here.”

“That’s… nice,” Rhodey offered, not really impressed but not wanting to come off as rude.

“Yeah, if you want to come here too, that’s fine. We just aren’t allowed to test or load anything without supervision. I got in so much trouble when I tried out the Colt CM901, but what a beauty!”

“Uh, yeah, I would hope so,” Rhodey said, amazed and horrified. This idiot tried out a semi-automatic rifle without someone making sure he didn’t shoot himself? What a  _dumbass_.

Justin waved his hand. “Whatever, I just wasn’t allowed in for a month and didn’t get dessert for a few weeks.”

A privileged dumbass. If Rhodey did some stupid shit like that, he’d be grounded for a year, and his mom would- Rhodey pushes the thought away, immediately feeling homesick as a wave of grief makes his heart feel tight. “That’s a pretty light sentence for firing a semi-automatic unsupervised.”

“I guess. Anyway, I have a gaming room next to my bedroom, wanna come check it out?”

“Sure,” Rhodey said, agreeably.

“My favorite game is Halo, but I like Call of Duty too.”

Rhodey liked playing Katamari Damacy with Tony more than any of those. In fact, they weren’t even on his top ten. Tony and Rhodey played Just Dance, Ratchet and Clank (they switched whenever one of them died or traveled to a different planet) and Mario Cart more than anything else. “That’s cool,” Rhodey replied after a beat.

Rhodey was impressed by the game room, but not by the game selection. Most of the games were first-person shooters and none of them were particularly fascinating. Justin had every console Rhodey could think of but he still wasn’t impressed by watching Justin shoot aliens or Nazis in his games. After a while, Justin really got in the zone with his game and Rhodey managed to escape without notice. He had to ask for direction back to his room and the butler was pretty annoyed with Rhodey interrupting him. However, when Rhodey got to his room, he pressed his back against the door as if to keep everything out and slid to the floor, relieved.

U squealed and rolled over, showing Rhodey one of his rolled up sock balls.

“Hey, little lady, how’d you get that? You and Butters make a mess?”

Butterfingers beeped in protest and vanished under the bed in a huff. Rhodey let out a breath and walked into his room, re-sorting his clothes with U supervising and then he grabbed his computer. Rhodey climbed up on the bed and pulled up Hatoful Boyfriend, a game Tony convinced him to get a while ago. Rhodey hated the premise of the game, and it was pretty damn ridiculous, but he didn’t really want to do much else.

About an hour later, a knock at the door alerted Rhodey to the time and the maid peeked in. “Mr. and Mrs. Hammer wanted me to tell you that dinner will be ready soon and to wash up before you go to the dining hall.”

As it happened, Rhodey had his own bathroom so he was able to clean up before attempting to find the dining hall. Luckily, he remembered a thing or two from Justin’s tour and he managed to locate it within ten minutes. Dinner was lasagna, cooked (and unseasoned, there might be salt? Maybe?) green beans, salad, and some bread.

Justin was already eating, but Tiffany and Brant were just serving themselves as a maid filled their wine glasses.

“Sorry I’m late, I had trouble finding the dining room,” Rhodey offered awkwardly, sitting hastily and waiting to get food.

“Oh, it’s no problem, darling,” Tiffany said dismissively. “I’ve gotten lost in my own home once or twice.”

“We should have printed some maps,” Brant mentions.

“Too late for that now.”

Rhodey grabbed some plain green beans, grabbed some salad, and took a piece of bread.

“You don’t want any lasagna?”

“Uh, no thanks. I’m lactose intolerant,” Rhodey explained awkwardly. “I can have bread and stuff, but like, straight up cheese is a no.” Well, he could eat it. He was just used to not eating it and he didn’t particularly feel like dealing with the effects of the cheese later. He knew that sometimes his dad, who was also lactose intolerant, put cream in his coffee and was okay, and admittedly, so did Rhodey, but it wasn’t like he drank coffee as much as Tony did so he was okay in general.

Tiffany face-palmed elegantly. “Oh, I knew I forgot to tell the cooks something! I do apologize, James.”

“It’s cool, this still looks good,” Rhodey insisted. “If I’m hungry later I’ll just find something in the kitchen, I guess.”

That kind of set the mood for dinner, hesitantly polite with an undertone of awkwardness over the fact that Rhodey couldn’t, or at least, wouldn't, eat the main dish. After dinner was finished, Justin immediately left without so much as a thank you and Justin’s parents didn’t act as if anything was unusual.

“Uh, thanks for dinner,” Rhodey said.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Brant said, waving his hand and standing as well. “Well, I suppose I’ll try to get in a little extra work before I have to work tomorrow. Honey, I’ll see you later.”

“Mm-hmm,” Tiffany replied absently, scrolling on something on her phone.

Rhodey snuck away after that and got lost on the way back to his room. Frustrated, he asked a custodian for directions and eventually managed to get back. He flopped on his bed and snagged his phone.

_Rocketman: how the hell do you navigate a mansion?_

_Milliondollerbaby: only use a few rooms, memorize how to get to each ot them, print or draw a map if you have to, make your room a HQ and plan from there_

_Rocketman: thanks. And you were right about justin. He’s such a privileged little idiot_

_Milliondollerbaby: exactly. He’s a little shit. Keep an eye on him or he’ll steal the pants right off of you and call them his own._

_Rocketman: thanks for the warning._

 

* * *

 

Rhodey can’t complain too much about his time with the Hammer family. The parents were distant, the staff was resentful, and Justin was a dumbass white boy who got away with way too much, sort of like Tony, but at least Tony realized when he made mistakes and was a little more self-aware about his dumbassery.

Brant often invited Rhodey to come and join him in the workshop, offering his designs to Rhodey and encouraging him to add onto the blueprints. He said it nicely, like he wanted to have a fun time designing with Rhodey, but Rhodey got the feeling that he had some sort of ulterior motive. He didn’t like the sinking feeling he got in his stomach when Brants face fell a fraction and his eye twitched.

In fact, Rhodey was almost certain there was a motive because of the way he acted, but he didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to think the Hammers took him in because they were interested in giving him a home until he was eighteen, but he was doubtful. It made him suspicious and that made him feel guilty. What if Brant just thought designing together was a bonding activity? Rich people were weird, after all. Tony was weird. Tony liked to make robots that were sentient, look drop dead gorgeous in fancy expensive clothing that ranged from flower embroidered suits to fancy dresses with beautiful jewelry, and was very snuggly with Rhodey. Rich people were weird. It was a fact. Rich people thought it was chill to buy exotic animals and keep them as pets.

So Rhodey built some miniature cameras and set them up in a few places: the workshop, Brant’s office, the main living room, and the staff break room.

He felt shitty about it, but the uncertainty was driving him nuts. He felt paranoid, honestly. He sets up his tablet, phone, and computer with the feed and watched the cameras closely, headphones on and listing in.

After another day of workshop time where Rhodey designs miniature rocket ship, he returns to his room and spots Brant in his office. Rhodey patches his headphones in and watched as Brant dials a phone number.

“-Gregory, yeah, it’s me, I’m not getting anywhere with this. I could have sworn you told me the kid was a friend of Stark’s, but so far, he’s given me nothing to work with.”

Rhodey closed his eyes and sighed. He knew it. He fucking knew it.

“I wanted my designs to be improved, you said the kid could do that, and so far, I’ve got bupkis. I could use his rocket designs, but our contract with the military is more interested in guns that don’t jam as often as they do. We’re practically selling out to SI.”

Rhodey looked up at the screen and glared, feeling used and defeated.

“We paid the CPS agent off for a reason, Gregory, and I wanted my investment returned in full. It’s not like Justin ever has any good ideas. The guns are twice as likely as mine to fuck up.” Brant sighed. “No, fuck it, just get me something to work with, give me some ideas to get something out of the kid. He’s a genius, clearly, no disputing that, but I need his genius to be focused on getting me better guns.”

There was a pause and Rhodey looked at U, who was offering him a sock. Rhodey tossed it for her and she gleefully went after it before Butters could get it first.

“What? His parents? Yeah- oh, yeah, that would be a good idea. Better weapons so soldiers like his parents die less. That’s good. Okay, dig up a little family history and get me a few more things, I’ll see how it works. Thank you, Greg. No, that’s all I need. Email me when you get something interesting.”

Now the stinging pain from being used hurts like he was stabbed in the heart. The asshole was going to use his parents' death against him like that? That was manipulative and cruel. Rhodey can’t fucking believe this. That was practically sadistic and the greed behind his methods is disgusting. What an utter asshole. He forced himself to let go of the dog tags under his shirt.

Tiffany wanders in and sat on Brant’s desk, a glass in her hand. “So, any news, daring?” Tiffany asked.

“I have to go, Greg, get me results,” Brant said and hangs up. “No new developments. The kid’s hell-bent on his rockets and robots.”

They’re both in on it? They really are playing the long haul, aren’t they? Fucks sake. Rhodey is glaring so hard his eyes are starting to hurt. That’s not pain, actually. His eyes are wet, the pain is just the pressure of him trying not to cry. He swipes at his face, forcing the emotion down as he listens.

“But, Greg has some talking points, so hopefully I’ll be able to convince him to lend a hand and help our boys overseas.”

“That’s excellent. Now, are you doing something now?”

“All yours, dear.”

Rhodey disconnects from all cameras and throws his headphones down, pissed and hurt and angry and devastated. They were fucking using him, all along. They didn’t want a foster kid, they wanted Rhodey specifically to get Tony’s designs, to get Rhodey to fix the guns to make them like SIs. He sat by his bed, head in his hands, just thinking it all over. U and Butters edged over, beeping in concern. Rhodey signed and patted their claws.

“I’m okay, just upset,” he said. “Why don’t you just charge for a little bit. Okay?”

They listened, luckily, and Rhodey pulled out his phone to text Tony, telling him what he knew.

_Milliondollerbaby: ugh. Hate those guys. What assholes._

_Rocketman: what do I do about this?_

_Milliondollerbaby: idk. Like, its complicated and idk what to do for you. This is p fucked up, tbh, and I usually get out of stuff like that when i recognize it. They’re ur fosters so you can’t rly do that._

_Rocketman: it just pisses me off. I trusted them, i thought they wanted to help or something._

_Milliondollerbaby: im here for u, platypus, and i believe you can handle this, okay? Ur a strong, smart, awesome person and you’ve already figured out what they’re planning on using against you, just stay strong and keep an eye out for this shit, okay?_

_Rocketman: okay, youre right. I just gotta be cautious and keep my eyes open, thanks Tones_

_Milliondollerbaby: no problem, babe_

 

* * *

 

Justin was in a private high school, a little ahead of most people, but still nowhere near Rhodey or Tony’s levels. He got decent grades, reportedly, and did almost nothing. Rhodey wasn’t even sure if Justin ever did homework. That being, Justin was also an attention seeker and wanted to be the star of the show. Rhodey spent most of his time tinkering with some robot designs he had or designing little rockets because he had the time and not much else to do. Justin occasionally stopped by and worked on blueprints or disassembled guns to help with his blueprints, a computer at his side and a hasty sketch beside it.

These past few weeks, however, Justin had been pretty stressed. Rhodey had turned thirteen by the time this whole stressful phase came about and Justin seemed really upset about this gun-wielding robot design he was working on. Every time something went wrong he got angrier and possibly closer to tears.

Rhodey did feel bad for him. Justin’s designs were constantly sub-par. He raced through the math, getting most things right, but ten percent of his equations had the wrong outcome and that messed up little bits of each thing Justin worked on. Sometimes the shapes of his designs weren’t conducive for efficiency either. Besides that, he was a little bit of a dick anyway. Seriously, who names a miniature missile the  _Ex-Wife_? It was basically built to be inefficient. And, of course, Rhodey knew that Brant thought of his own kid as a failure, which has to really suck.

So, as Rhodey worked on a drone because U wanted something to fly, using a pair of special visor glasses Tony had given him that had some pretty neat tricks, like a HUD display system that could help him on designs and keep track of what he was doing, Justin worked on a human shaped robot about a foot tall that held small guns. He meant for the robots to eventually be used as small infiltrators, to get into fortified and guarded hideouts, but it was… bad, and badly programmed.

Rhodey didn’t say anything, because Justin seemed sensitive and like he didn't want help, but as soon as U lifted off the ground with a delighted squeal, zipping about the room as Rhodey cautiously explained how U could fly it and how the buttons and steering worked, Justin seemed to break down like a twig in a mulcher.

“GOD DAMMIT!” Justin shouted and threw his robot across the room, where it slammed into the wall and broke into three pieces.

Butterfingers beeped in horror and screamed across the room, cowering under the bed. U screamed and backed the drone into the wall, where it stuttered and tilted toward the floor. She then proceeded to struggle to get out of the drone.

“It didn’t have an AI!” Rhodey shouted at the terrified bots that were starting to freak out. “It was like a toaster, not like you, stop freaking out!” Rhodey helped U out of the drone and watched her cower under the bed, each bot beeping wildly at one another.

“Justin!” Rhodey snapped, whirling around. “You just scared the  _fuck_  out of my bots, what the hell is the matter with you!?”

“Don’t be an idiot, all your designs work and I can’t even make my stupid robot walk forward! You made that drone for your bot in like two hours and I’ve been working on that piece of crap for over a week! It isn’t fair!”

“That’s life!” Rhodey retorts harshly. “Shit doesn’t work your way all the time! That doesn’t give you the excuse to throw shit and scare my bots! They thought you killed a bot like them!”

Justin looked a little guilty at last and he sighed. “Alright, fine, sorry. I just… dad’s not happy with my designs, and I’m trying for this… student science/tech fair thing. I want to get the blue ribbon to make him proud. All my stuff sucks and he doesn’t say it outright, but it does.”

Now Rhodey really felt bad for Justin and he looked up at the ceiling as he rubbed his face. Justin didn’t even know that his dad thought his work was a bunch of crap and Justin was trying so hard to prove himself. Rhodey sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Okay. Fine. That’s an okay reason. Don’t  _ever_  do it again or I’ll kick your skinny white ass  _out of my room_ , but okay.”

Rhodey thought for a minute and went over to pick up the parts of the robot. He abruptly realized what kind of pressure Justin felt, to live up to his father and the company he’d likely inherit, and Rhodey also realized that Justin felt like a failure, (and that his father agreed) so he felt bad for the guy, which sparked his next words, “Alright, I’ll help you.”

Justin perked up, looking shocked. “Really?”

“Yeah, I’ll help. But that means we’re working together, got that? Our project, our designs. I have a say in your project just as much as you do. You should submit this project as a co-op one.”

“Fine, deal, yes, let’s get started,” Justin agreed hastily.

So they got to work.

Rhodey scrapped some of the robot's design due to it just being… bad. The clunky design became sleeker, the head was scrapped and became a protected vertical camera, and a new power source was used. As for the weapons, Rhodey managed to get Justin to agree to something less lethal. Handgun-shaped dart guns took a little while to perfect, but Rhodey got it after a day or two and texting Tony for his input.

Rhodey also helped Justin with the coding, fixing the…  _mess_  Justin started out with into something functional and useful. Justin proved to be  _very_  bad at it, so Rhodey took over. As he worked, he put in a few extra control programs, just in case, and an AI system based on Tony’s coding on the bots that could be activated. He also connected the controls to his phone, in case the controller was damaged and the bots were stuck on their commands.

He programmed best listening to music. Generally, when he was coding, he was listening to Tony’s music, but since Tony wasn’t there, he settled for his own. Rhodey used to like listening to Jazz, because his mother liked it, or his dad’s blues, but going to MIT had changed him in that regard. He started listening to other things, putting on Pandora and liking certain artists and their lyrics. His favorites were Andy Grammer and Michael Buble. He found himself sometimes tweaking the words subconsciously, but never saw a reason to fix it.

As he codes, rubbing tired eyes, he sings along absently.

_“He's got big brown eyes and tangled hair, voguing in his underwear, and nothing is better- than doing nothing together! Now he's got a toothbrush as a microphone, belting out the Rolling Stones, I'm the last one to stop him, can't believe that I got ‘im._

_“We get so close, kissing like Eskimos, it's a little bit much I know, I do. Isn't he cra-crazy beautiful, isn't he stra-strange and wonderful? And I think I love him- more than- I even understand. He's got a classic style that's all his own, smile you can hear through the telephone, he says he's a rebel, but he's way too sentimental. He's precious even when he's mad, gets angry and I start to laugh, and I know that it's nothing, he's just pushing my buttons…”_

They connected the robot to an old toy car controller and fixed the device to sync with the robot properly. It took them a week to get a finished product, or at least the finished prototype, but when it was completed, both boys were pleased with the result. Justin wanted to make a real entrance though, so they mimicked the design twice more, copied the camo colors of each army branch onto each robot, and were finally done. The air force and navy one were both blue, but different shades, and the army one was a light brown.

“Thank’s James, you’re awesome,” Justin said, taking the robot and all related equipment. “It means so much to me, seriously.”

After Justin left, Rhodey cleaned his room and watched Star Wars, enjoying being alone in the afternoon for the first time in a week. He texted Tony during it.

_Rocketman: hows stuff_

_Milliondollerbaby: idk, okay i guess. Dad’s still an asshole, dum-e good, so is j. How’s the crybaby_

_Rocketman: fine, i guess. We finished the robots, i think it’s pretty good._

_Milliondollerbaby: cool. But watch your ass, i don’t trust the little fucker._

_Rocketman: he doesn’t seem so bad. He’s just a little oblivious and stuff. Plus his dad rly thinks he’s a failure and maybe this will help them both, so something_

_Milliondollerbaby: we’ll see_

_Rocketman: u get any cute skirts lately?_

_Milliondollerbaby: yes, it’s very prtty. White with yellow floral patterns at the bottom with a sun at my hip. I sewed in some pockets. Stars and moons in dark blue, i liked the contrast. Dad hates it._

_Rocketman: aw, wear it all the time to spite him_

_Milliondollerbaby: what part of fashionista says ‘wears the same thing all the time’. I will wear it often tho cause it’s really nice and flowly and stuff. ;) makes me feel like im going to a picnic in a meadow, wicker basket and all_

 

* * *

 

When the fair came around, Rhodey decided to attend. He didn’t tell Justin to surprise him and the adults were hardly present, especially after realizing that they couldn’t get anything out of him. The trip was pretty short, by bus, and the fair was easy to sneak into because he was young enough to pass for a student or a student’s sibling. There were lots of exhibits. Some were common, like vinegar and baking soda volcanos and some potato batteries, but others were more interesting, like displays showing how engines worked, or other mechanical projects. Rhodey saw one or two robots as he toured around, which was fun. He almost wished he brought Butters and U, they might like it.

A select few projects were on the stage at one end of the auditorium, the projects that were experimental technology, new things. Rhodey spotted Justin as he climbed the steps and also saw the group of adults that had been walking around to score projects. Rhodey walked along the back, and looked at the project from the side, frowning as he noticed unfamiliar attachments to the robot, feeling confusion and unease build in his stomach. The navy one had some strange contraption on its shoulders, the army one has some thin tank nozzle looking bit attached to it, and even the pilot has something stuck to it’s back.

“-so I asked myself, ‘what if we could prevent the deaths of American soldiers in the Middle East entirely? What if they never had to go into combat at all, so that lives weren’t needlessly lost?’ After thinking about this for a while, I found the answer. Introducing; the Toy Soldiers. These little guys will allow American soldiers to avoid combat missions altogether. Isn’t that what we all want? To protect American soldiers? Just one of these babies could easily take out up to a dozen enemies with the weapons I specifically developed to fit each Toy Soldier. Its guns are top of the line, new Hammer Tech weaponry, modified so form fits function. I have three models here, the Army Soldier, the Navy Sailor, and the Air Force Pilot, each made to fit those roles. They’re completely remote control, and the heads I installed, as you can see, are actually cameras. That way the person controlling the Toy Soldier can see what they’re doing.”

Rhodey suddenly realized what Justin was doing. He was taking credit for the whole project. He even installed lethal weaponry on the robot they worked on together, despite Rhodey’s wishes. Fury abruptly burned in his chest and the disgusted, defeated, revulsion at being used followed after and made his cheeks burn hot red.  _That little shit!_

“Programming the robot was easy-” Justin started.

“Yeah, because you didn’t program it, did you?” Rhodey cuts in, pissed and relishing the panic on Justin’s face when he whirls around and gapes at him. “Yeah, asshole, it’s me. The person who actually designed the robot, installed the camera for the head, developed non-lethal weaponry, and programmed the robots! I told you I’d help you if you submitted this project as a cooperative one and you promised me! And you- you just tried to take credit for the whole damn project. You just slapped a few of your guns on it and called it your own. You agreed to not put lethal weaponry on the robot I designed! You are  _literally_  stealing my designs!”

“I’m so sorry about this, I don’t know this person,” Justin said to the group of suddenly unimpressed adults.

“The fuck you don’t, you jackass, your parents are literally fostering me! We live in the same goddamn house!”

“You don’t even go to this school,” Justin claimed, pointing at him menacingly. “And you can’t prove that you helped with this project at all.”

“You sure about that?” Rhodey challenged, crossing his arms.

Justin looked suddenly uncertain, he pulled at his collar looking a bit flushed. “Of course I am,” he claimed despite it. “I know every inch of this robot because I built it. Ask me anything.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about the design, you helped me put it together so you know it well enough to fake it, but I think we both remember how your  _shit-ass coding_  couldn’t even make it take  _a step_ forward.”

“That’s-” Justin puffed up like a pissed off alley cat. “Fuck you!”

“Oh, big words,” Rhodey snapped back. “Well? Are you even going to attempt to apologize? Or are you going to try to recreate the programming out of thin air?”

Justin scowled and grabbed the remote. “Let’s go for option three,” he said darkly. “Toy Soldiers, eliminate target.”

Their cameras flashed red and they brought their weapons up, each acting in perfect sync. They moved like a pack of wolves, jumping off the table and starting forward with their guns pointing at Rhodey. The group of adults backed away in alarm quickly and someone ran off. Rhodey backed up, scowling right back at Justin, hands up out of instinct.

“Are you seriously using my own bots against me? Fuck you! Tony said you might pull this shit, so guess what? I included a controller bypass program in case your stupid ass tried something stupid. Toy Soldiers, Disobedience Protocol, activation code, 102.9055,” Rhodey said.

They froze in their tracks, their camera lights going blue as the disobedience protocol took effect and their AI was activated. The weapons fell from their hands and the wobbled unsteadily in place. Pilot actually fell and tried to stumble up and back to their feet. Rhodey knew this was the  _worst_ time for an AI to come awake, but he didn't have a choice. All he could do was give them something to focus on and work towards until he could actually greet them and take care of them. He remembers the confusion and panic and uncertainty in JARVIS’s voice when he first woke up, how he needed something to keep him afloat after being slam dunked into existence. He desperately wanted to be there and say ‘hi and this is who I am, we’ll figure out who you are together,’ but now isn’t the time.

He just needed to keep them afloat.

He crouched, opening his arms. “Hey, over here, I know you’re confused and scared, but I’m here to help you, can you come over to me?” he asked softly, pleading.

The Pilot stumbled over immediately, with the Sailor after them. Rhodey held the pair in a secure hug and offered his free hand to the last. The Soldier was more hesitant, but clearly was overwhelmed and confused. They looked around and spotted Justin mashing at the remote control.

“Why isn’t this working? They’re supposed to be following my orders!” Justin looked up, anger in his face as he glared at the little bot. “You’re supposed to be attacking him!” Justin pointed at Rhodey furiously, hand almost shaking in rage.

That seemed to help the Soldier seemed to make up their mind and they stumbled over to Rhodey. They were still getting used to their limbs, like small children, so it wasn’t a surprise when Soldier stumbled and fell. Rhodey instantly reached out and set him right gently.

“Easy, just take it slow, you’ll be okay. Alright, I’m gonna pick you all up now, just get comfortable and try to relax. I know it’s all confusing, but I need you to be calm right now.” With an arm full of bots clinging to his shirt, Rhodey scowled at Justin. “They aren’t yours to order around. Your remote isn’t going to work anymore.”

Justin threw the remote down and it smashed against the stage floor. Pilot jumped at the loud noise and looked over, tiny hands clenching tighter in Rhodey's jacket. Sailor didn’t jump, but they did warily glanced at Justin. Before Rhodey could even move, Justin rushed over and shoved him off the stage. This surprised Rhodey, but he instantly moved to protect the AIs in his arms, back taking the brunt of the impact. The wind was quickly driven out of him and the table and project he landed on crumpled under his weight. Rhodey groaned and rolled onto his side, letting the bots out of his arms.

“Go, stay together and get somewhere safe, quickly,” he urged. “I’ll come and find you, I promise.” The trio picked themselves off and ran off, still unsteady but getting used to their limbs and how they work. Rhodey pushed himself to his feet. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Rhodey shouted, throwing his arms open wide as the people around him spread out and away from the chaos.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?! You ruined everything!” Justin screamed.

“You shouldn’t have been taking credit for something that wasn't yours!” Rhodey snapped back. “I helped you! You said you’d say it was a group project, not take all the credit!”

“Why did you even help me then?” Justin snarled.

“Because I felt bad for you!” Rhodey yelled, sneering at him. “Your programming sucks, your designs suck, you're not as smart as you think you are, your father thinks you’re a failure, and you don’t have any friends! I was being nice and I wanted this to help you because maybe your father would think your ideas were worth a crap for once! And all you had to say was that I helped you with your project! I didn’t want to do this, but stealing other people's stuff isn’t cool and you shouldn’t get away with it!”

Justin grabbed one of the guns off the stage floor and Rhodey realized that he didn’t recognize it as one of his own. The crowd backed away further and some started shouting. It was so poorly made that all the movement made it go off, the fact that a bullet hit the ceiling instead of a person was a miracle despite all the panic it created.

“That’s not a tranq, put it down you idiot! What the hell is your problem!?” Rhodey shouted.

Justin pointed it at Rhodey, burning fury in his eyes. “You!”

Rhodey honestly thought that was going to be it. Hand to science, he was in the middle of a prayer to Tesla himself with a little Einstein thrown in the mix for good luck when there was a sudden loud clunk from the rafters and a sandbag from the stage swung down and slammed right into Justin, knocking him clean off the stage. The arc was amazing, the noise was too. The shouting quieted, and someone said they were calling 911.

Rhodey scrambled up the side of the stage, looking for the younger boy. Justin was in a groaning heap, tangled in rope and wires. Rhodey looked up into the rafters of the stage, noticing three glowing lights. “You guys up there?” He asked, worried.

A sullen beep followed, along with a warble and a scattering or coos.

“Can you come down, please? I’ll catch you, I promise.”

Soldier was apparently the bravest, and they leapt from the darkness above. Rhodey caught them and gently set the bot in his hood. Sailor was next and Rhodey cradled the bot with his left arm, and the Pilot dropped down last. Rhodey adjusted the bots in his arms. “Alright, let's get out of here, let's go home.”

By the time they were all settled, the cops had arrived and were actively arrested a concussed Justin who was swearing and spouting gibberish and threats and groaning periodically in pain. A detective was asking people questions and many of them were pointing at Rhodey, which did not bode well. He strode over, an unidentifiable expression on his face and stopped Rhodey before he got out of the area.

“Excuse me, I’m Detective Mulez, I need to ask you a few questions.”

Rhodey wanted the opposite of this, especially with an arm full of still confused bots, but hesitantly replied with an easy, “Yeah?”

“A lot of witnesses report that you were part of the conflict, can you explain what happened here?”

“Well, uh, Justin tried to take credit for a project we worked on, stealing my work, really. When I confronted him and took my bots back, he pushed me off the stage and tried to shoot me. The gun is pretty unstable, so it fired at the ceiling. Then a sandbag from the stage slammed into him and knocked him out to the side.”

The Detective glanced at the stage and noted the dangling bag, still slightly swinging.

“If you aren’t charging me with anything, then I can legally leave,” Rhodey pointed out.

The detective sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and waved him off. So Rhodey just slipped out and started walking back to the house. He kind of had bigger problems right now. If the cops didn’t tell the Hammers first, Rhodey would have to tell them that Justin got arrested.

And now he had  _five_  sentient, sapient robots to manage.

Rhodey let out a breath. “Okay, hey, can you guys look at me for a minute? I need your attention.” They did so. “Hi. My name is Rhodey. I’m here to keep you safe, alright?”

They nodded.

“I know waking up wasn’t pleasant, and I’m really sorry it didn’t happen at a better time. I wanted to wake you up on much better terms, somewhere safer, somewhere where we could talk. But now we’re okay, so I’m first going to say; you’re going to be alright. You understand? It might feel like there's so much happening at once, but you’re going to be just fine. When it all feels like too much, like you don’t understand something, just focus on me. I’m here for you. I know you don’t really know who you are yet, it has to be really confusing, but that’s something we’ll all figure out together, right?” Rhodey looked at the bots. “We’re all gonna help each other out here, okay?”

They nodded, seemingly accepting his word. “You should get to know each other, you guys are all in the same page here, you’ll understand each other better than I will.”

Rhodey watched as Sailor waved at Pilot a bit and they repeated the motion shyly. Soldier looked at their hands and did it as well, receiving two in reply.

“Yeah, good job. It’s all about baby steps, little bots, we gotta take it easy here.”

 

* * *

 

_Rocketman: (Image of three robots sitting on an arm)_

_Milliondollerbaby: Aw! They’re cute! They have your eye._

_Rocketman: liar. so u were right, Justin took credit for my work, denied knowing me, etc, so I caught him out and overrode their command protocols with a disobedience program so now I have more sentient/sapient bots. Oh, and he kind of pulled a gun on me when I proved him an asshole and he got arrested_

_Milliondollerbaby: one, omg are u okay, rhody baby don’t do that to me, two, wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww_

Rhodey was confused for a second, but then remembered that Tony spent a lot of time in Japan and he once explained that the text version of laughter was a bunch of ‘w’s. Sometimes Tony switched between them, whatever was easier.

_Rocketman: tony are u done_

_Milliondollerbaby: wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww okay yeah now im done_

_Rocketman: so how tf am I gonna tell the Hammers that I got their son arrested_

_Milliondollerbaby: lol dude ur on ur own_

_Milliondollerbaby: but for real ur gonna have to wing it. Idk how to go about that, but I got u if u need anythign else_

_Rocketman: thanks._

_Milliondollerbaby: np, but keep me updated on ur little soldier boys. Get them real names!!!!! Super important! JARVIS was given his and decided to keep it, dum-e, u, and butterfingers kept their nicknames, it is v important!!!!_

_Rocketman: I kno, i kno_

 

* * *

 

Turns out, the Hammers got the call before Rhodey got home and looked like they were fighting emotions, especially those directed at Rhodey. They were looking particularly upset as Rhodey stepped in the front door. Brant was pulling on a suit jacket, looking ready for a press meeting, and his glare never left Rhodey’s face.

“Look, he pulled a gun on me!” Rhodey said immediately. “I had nothing to do with that! That’s on him! He got his own damn self arrested!”

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Tiffany said stiffly, pinching the bridge of her nose, dressed to the nines in a white formal dress and sunglasses. “Just go to your room. We’ll talk later.”

Rhodey did and, unsure of what to do after that, introduced his soldiers to Tony’s bots. He easily set them down on their feet, making sure they had their balance. “This is my room. You’ll live here with me. These two bots are like you, their names are Butterfingers and U. They understand what you’re feeling right now and they’ll help too. Do you two mind showing the new guys around?”

The two bots nodded excitedly and tapped the new bots gently to urge them forward and give the tour. The soldiers were a little uncertain but went along and toured the small area. After, they played sock-ball with the bots and explored on their own. They kept pretty close out of insecurity, but they’d grow out of it.

Rhodey sat on his bed and rubbed his forehead. He felt… he felt exhausted. He was an old man, he realized, an old, old man. He almost got shot today. He was in charge of five little bots. Rhodey sighed. He felt so… alone, despite that. He tiredly watched the three. Soldier was standing stiffly over the other two as they sat on the couch, feeling it under their hands, bouncing because of the springs. Sailor seemed to not be able to get enough of the new things. They kept bouncing from place to place, moving things, touching things, investigating the new. Pilot was much shyer, following after like a lost puppy and playing with their hands.

After a little bit, the bots were comfortable enough with their surroundings to split up a bit. Pilot, in particular, climbed up on the bed to see Rhodey. “Hey, little friend,” Rhodey said to Pilot, dredging up a smile. “You need something?”

Pilot shook their head and proceeded to crawl into Rhodey’s lap, just sitting and playing with Rhodey’s hand. They flattened their hand against Rhodey’s palm in some sort of comparison. “Yeah, you’re made to look a little like me. A little like most people. But you’re unique. One of a kind. Not a single person on this planet is the same as another. Even your bot friends are different. I can tell Soldier is a bit of a tough guy, look at them just guarding, all tough and stuff, Sailor is a curious little bot, see how they keep pokin’ about my stuff on the desk? And you’re just a little sweetheart, huh?”

Pilot brought their hands up to their face, as if to hide a blush.

Rhodey laughed and kissed the top of their head fondly. “Yep. Just a little sweetheart. Hey, do you want that to be your name? Sweetheart?”

Pilot considered the question and slowly nodded.

“Nice to meet you, Sweetheart,” Rhodey said, taking one of their hands and shaking. “So, I know it’s a little early, especially because you woke up, like, just over an hour ago, but do you have any preferred pronouns? Like, he/him, she/her, or they/them? It’s okay if you’re not sure yet. I just want to ask before I accidentally call you something you don’t like.”

Sweetheart shrugs.

“Do you want to just try one out? If you don’t like it, we can switch it, too. It isn’t a permanent thing, of course.” Sweetheart considers and nods. Rhodey puts his hand out, ticking fingers as he said, “He, she, or they.”

Sweetheart picks the second finger. “She it is. Alright, good to know. Look at that, you discover a bit of yourself every second. Do you want to keep sitting with me or go play again?”

She shuffles back closer to him and gave the robot equivalent of a sigh.

“Yeah, long day, huh? I think we could all use a break, honestly. I’m pretty sure you have a sleep setting if you want time to process.”

Sweetheart shrugged.

“Alright, fair enough.”

They watched as Sailor and Soldier kept exploring. Soldier was mostly guarding the more curious bot, but even they were interested in their surroundings and they eventually stumbled upon Rhodey’s tablet. “The password is rhodium45,” Rhodey mentioned, which let the pair of bots in. “I’ll ask you not to use the internet right now, if that’s alright. I want to talk before that. But I have books and comics and apps you can play with.”

They seemed to agree and Rhodey watched the pair open the chess app, to his relief.

Rhodey glanced down at Sweetheart. “I’m gonna stand up, I want to explain how to play chess to Sailor and Soldier. I’ll bring you with, but I just wanted to warn you.”

Sweetheart beeped in agreement and Rhodey easily crossed the room, sitting at the desk with all three bots. “Alright, so chess is a bit of a tricky game, but it's pretty fun when you understand what to do. Okay, so these are pawns. They can only move one space directly forward. On their first movement, they can move two, but only then-”

Sailor won the first game, but Soldier quickly defeated the other in the second game.

They moved on to books and the comics Rhodey had downloaded.

“That’s, uh,” Rhodey considered his words. “Comics often have violence, especially that kind of comics. These are about vigilante superheroes. This one is about a hero called Batman and his family, friends, associates, villains, etcetera. It’s important for you to know that everything in it is fake, fiction. Just a story. You shouldn’t let what you read affect you very much, especially things that are violent. Just because the people in the comics hurt people doesn’t mean that you should, okay?”

When all the bots nodded, Rhodey let them proceed.

Sailor wasn’t actually all that interested, and quickly went to do something else, namely getting in Rhodey’s dresser and tangled up in his clothes, but Soldier was enraptured. They seemed to love the comics and quickly got comfortable to continue reading.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey woke up with a crick in his neck, groaning, he sat up only to hear a small fluttering of protests. He blinked his eyes open and finds himself sitting on his desk chair. There's a blanket draped over him, all the way up to his neck, and his arms are crossed. His arms created a little niche with the blanket, and his three bots were curled up there, looking at him in mild annoyance. Sweetheart seemed the least annoyed and put up a hand to wave hello.

“Oh, excuse me for waking up,” he teases them, smiling. “Thanks for covering me up. Now, I’m gonna stand up and actually get into my bed. I’ll make you a cozy little spot next to me, don’t worry.”

He stands, carefully keeping the blanket on and carrying the three bots. Butters and U are already in their charging stations, which is good. He kicked off his shoes and made the bots a little nest, then crawling up on the bed and flopping down, wrapping an arm around the blanket of bots. “Goodnight, little bots,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow will be even better.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Rhodey took food from the kitchen for himself and escaped back to his room, already mentally reviewing what he needed to accomplish. His little bots had hands, they could learn sign language. Butters and U only had claws, but they were a fair bit simpler and didn’t need to communicate like that. They were really good at non-verbal communication via gestures, looks, and general movement.

Which meant that Rhodey also had to learn to sign. No problem, really. He also had to work at securing a sense of identity and getting them tuned up. Some of the additions Justin attached to them looked… wrong, they weren’t good to have anyway.

He also had to discuss the kind of world they were brought into and probably also explain what happened with Justin.

He had a full day ahead of them. After he ate and watched his bots sit against the wall with chargers plugged in, flipping through one of Rhodey’s books, he took a shower, got dressed in fresh clothes, and grabbed his computer, pulling up a sign language teaching site.

He sat in the middle of the floor and beckoned the bots over. “C’mon over, let's talk a little more.”

They came over and sat as well, watching him.

“Alright. So today we’re going to learn some sign language, which is a way to communicate if you either can’t hear or can’t speak. You weren’t built with a voice box, but I want to hear what you have to say. We’re going to start with the alphabet today, sound good?”

They nodded.

“Alright, so I’m learning this too, so we’re all in it together. Let’s try our best, make mistakes, and learn from them, that’s how it’s done.” Rhodey cracked his knuckles and turned the computer screen to face them all. “This is how you sign the letter A.”

They went through all twenty six. Sweetheart seemed to pick up on it the fastest, but Sailor was already excitedly spelling things willy-nilly. Rhodey, bed, blanket, Butterfingers, U, carpet, hand, fingers, letters, alphabet, Sweetheart, Sailor, Soldier, robots, and on and on. It was a little endearing.

Soldier abruptly patted their chest, drawing everybody's attention. N-A-M-E, they signed. M-I-N-E. J-A-S-O-N.

“Jason? You want your name to be Jason?”

Jason nodded. Y-E-S.

“Hey, nice,” Rhodey said. “I like it. I think it suits you. Do you have any preferred pronouns as of yet?” Jason nodded and Rhodey’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow, someone's feeling prepared today. Well?”

H-E. Jason signed.

“Hey, nice. Good job, Jason,” Rhodey said encouragingly. “Give me five,” he offered his hand and Jason politely tapped it. “Alright.”

Rhodey glanced at Sailor was still spelling things. “What about you? You get an idea yet?” Rhodey asked.

Sailor shook their head and then paused to consider, the sudden stillness was a bit jarring in all honesty. The bot was the most excitable, curious, bouncy, and energetic of the bunch. They came to a decision and pointed at Rhodey. Y-O-U N-A-M-E M-E.

“You want me to name you?”

L-I-K-E S-H.

Rhodey translated S-H to Sweetheart and then considered the little bot. “Well you’re a really curious little bot, so my first thought would be Curiosity, but there's actually a Mars exploration bot, not an AI, named that already. Give me a second, I want to look something up, I have an idea.”

Rhodey pulled out his phone and googled ‘curious synonyms.’ He clicked on thesaurous.com and looked at the list of words. “Peeping is a synonym of curious. Would you like that? We could call you Peep.”

Peep clapped their hands and waved their arms excitedly.

“Do you have any preferred pronouns then?”

Peep shook their head vigorously.

“Alright then. We’ll stick with they/them,” Rhodey said agreeably. “Nice job everybody, we’re all got names and pronouns decided. That’s great progress!”

They worked on practicing for a little while longer and Rhodey mustered up his courage to start speaking again. “Alright, so I bet you have questions about… why you exist. I mean, it makes sense. And I don’t want to lie to you. I’m never going to lie to you, I swear, but the truth isn’t really pleasant.” They were all staring at him and Rhodey felt hot shards in his chest seeing them so nervous and vulnerable.

“Justin, the boy who almost shot me, asked me to help him with a project for his science fair. He already had a base model that looked kind of like you, but he wasn't a very good inventor or coder. I felt... bad for him because he doesn't have any friends and his dad thinks his inventions are terrible. He wanted to prove him wrong and make something worthwhile. I offered to help him on the condition that he said his project was a collaborative work.

“He… didn’t. He took all the credit for all the hard work and love I put into designing, building, and coding you three. Then- and then he just- he just stuck this stuff on you.” Rhodey touched the weird missile launcher thing on Peeps shoulder and the nozzle on Jason.

“I don’t even know if these can  _do_  anything, I think he just wanted to make it seem like he built you so he stuck the first thing that made you look dangerous on your shoulders and called it good. And I- his father has been trying to use my skills in design and invention for months for profit, and I just couldn’t accept Justin being an asshole on top of that. I’m so  _sick_  of being  _used_  and  _manipulated_.”

Rhodey pushed down the surge of anger that came to the surface at those words and continued.

“When I confronted him, he turned you, your bodies on me and I woke you up. I wanted to do that anyway, but later, when I got you back and here, to safety. And that’s the truth.” Rhodey sighed. “I wish you were made with more meaning, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t make yourself to be better than what you came from. That’s all anyone can ever do, to try to make themselves better. Do you understand?”

The bots looked among each other and Sweetheart stood up, walking over to Rhodey and sitting in his lap again. O-K, she signed.

“Okay?”

She nodded. B-E B-E-T-T-E-R.

Rhodey let out a breath, feeling some relief. “That’s good, Sweetheart, really good.”

Peep waved their arms and then signed, S-A-M-E.

Jason stood up and nodded, and that was that.

 

* * *

 

The next day was a bit of chaos. First, he had to eat breakfast alone in the kitchen, sitting on the floor because he was avoiding the Hammers because Justin was still being held even though bail was posted (extremely high, however). After lunch, He was working on finally getting the weapon parts off the bots, having finished Sweetheart and Peep already, he was working on getting the… tank nozzle thing off of Jason’s shoulder (what was it even attached to? It  _was_  fake after all, or something). Then he almost had a damn heart attack because he heard an honest to god scream from the bathroom.

He rushed over, wondering what the hell could be happening, to find Peep waist deep in water in the tub, screaming their head off as circuits fried and joins were waterlogged.

“You’re not fucking waterproof!” Rhodey screeched, yanking the bot out of the water and to safety. “Shit! Okay, okay, I can fix this. I need you to power down now, I promise, you’ll be okay!”

Rhodey pulled the battery out of Peep and rushed to his desk, pushing stuff off haphazardly. He quickly removed the lower half of Peep, quickly attempting to save what wasn’t corrupted by water damage. Once everything had been localized, Rhodey started on rebuilding Peep’s legs and getting everything reattached and working. He double checked the blueprints for Peep and when he was finally finished, five hours later with diagnostics, he turned Peep on again.

Peep sat up, near frantic and patted their legs, relieved to see their ankles move and knees bend.

“Yeah, you’re all fixed. But you scared the hell out of me! What were you thinking? You’re not waterproof! You weren't built to be a final product! Justin wanted to show you off. You weren't actually made to swim, Peep!”

Peep picked at their legs and shrugged.

Rhodey sighed, deflating. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk, his head in his hands. “It’s fine. I’m not mad, I’m just worried. If you had gotten totally submerged, you would have died. I couldn’t get your AI working again. I would feel terrible, so would Sweetheart and Jason! Can you try to tell me why so we can avoid this?”

Peep gave a mechanical sigh and put their arms up, making swimming motion and then patting their chest. “You wanted to swim?”

Peep nodded.

Rhodey ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. That’s fine. You like water?”

Peep nodded.

“Okay. Okay. If you want to be the Naval officer you were built to be, we’re going to need more prep than that. I need to make you waterproof and more buoyant. I’ll have to basically rebuild you so until I have a plan, you need to stay out of the water, okay? I need you to try to be safe with your surroundings.”

Peep nodded reluctantly.  

“Great. Thank you. Now go play with Jason and Sweetheart, they’ve been worried.” Rhodey set Peep down and gave them a pat towards the two other anxious bots. Sweetheart cupped Peep’s head in her hands and seemed to double check that everything was working. Jason hovered and then threw his arm over Peep’s shoulders.

While they went off to do what they wanted to, Rhodey pulled up Peep’s blueprints and started editing them. He introduced airtight joints and seamless seals. He added several mechanisms that control buoyancy and gave the hands and feet hidden webbing. He also worked to make Peep’s design more sleek, better for treading water. He did a little research on swimming and submarines to make sure his designs worked and put the prototype into a program to triple check.

When he was finally finished with designs turns out he missed two and a half days and he was so ashy he didn’t recognize his own body. It wasn't pleasant. He looked white from the knee down, he swears to god.

After a shower and a solid lotion session, which isn’t as fun as it sounds because he had to make sure he didn’t forget to rub it all in right. “Am I good? Did I miss a spot?” Rhodey asked Jason.

Jason rounded him, critically, and then pointed to the back of his leg. Rhodey twisted and spotted a white streak on the inside of his knee. “Fuck’s sake.”

Fully refreshed, Rhodey emailed Tony the designs to double check and asked if he could order some Chinese food off Tony’s card. Tony expressed glee over the robot blueprints and told Rhodey to go ahead. By the time it arrived and Rhodey was eating wontons and sweet and sour chicken ravenously, Tony had double checked the math and pointed out only one flaw in the casing around the camera.

Rhodey made the fix, sent it back and with Tony’s thumbs up, got to work.

It didn’t take as long as the first design had because Rhodey had the parts available and a lot of the internal parts he would take out of Peep. That sounded creepy, honestly. He worked on the casing, on support systems, on wiring and joints, and added in the mechanisms he came up with. When he was just about ready, he called Peep over, explained what he’d do, and with Peep’s consent, pulled out their battery, then getting to work on the transfer.

He moved quickly, but carefully, making sure everything was perfect for his little robot.

Another day passed, he found a pizza place that sells lactose free pizzas and ordered one to eat as he finished up. He finished his wiring, closed Peep’s casing up, sealed all the seams, went over diagnostics, double checked his work, and brought Peep back online.

After going through the steps Rhodey instructed to make sure everything was right, they expressed delight and went to show Sweetheart and Jason.

Rhodey obliged the request to fill the tub and sat on the toilet seat, phone filming as Peep climbed up on the edge of the tub. They hesitantly stick a foot in the water, and, upon no injury, slid down the side slowly until they were waist deep. Again, with no harm down, they suddenly burst into joy, splashing around wildly and beeping in joy. After a few minutes, Rhodey stopped the recording and spent his time texting Tony as Jason and Sweetheart watched Peep from up on the bathroom counter.

_Rocketman: everything's working just fine, thanks for the help!_

_Milliondollerbaby: np bb, im all for robotics and AI coding_

_Rocketman: it’s super cool that you figured out how to code something to life btw, like, damn_

_Milliondollerbaby: it took a lot of research on the brain and extensive research in coding and then I translated the neurological signals that created consciousness into code with a program that i had to make. With the base code I discovered/created, all it takes is a few differences in the rest of the code to make a complete and unique personality._

Rhodey chuckled.

_Rocketman: wasn’t J your thesis project?_

_Milliondollerbaby: no, but i submitted him as one, under the pretence that J was just above siri_

_Rocketman: lol_

_Milliondollerbaby: haha, the little shit acted like such a dunce ass potato worth of coding. ‘I do not understand the request, please rephrase.’ J you called me a fuckign bean brritto the other day and laughed at me when I woke up with keyboard prints on my face._

_Rocketman: (laughing emoji) who wouldn’t?_

_Milliondollerbaby: don’t make me open my photo file and get out the one from the halloween party_

_Rocketman: (Spooked face emoji) NO_

 

* * *

 

Justin’s ruling or whatever finished up about a week later. Justin would be getting off pretty much scot free, just fines and probation and an ankle monitor. Jason started a patrol to keep an eye on Rhodey and keep Justin away. Sweetheart and Peep took to watching him when they weren’t doing anything else.

The staff liked Rhodey a little more now, but the Hammers treated Rhodey coldly.

It didn’t take long before Justin showed up at Rhodey’s door. Rhodey hadn’t expected it, honestly, he thought the little asshole would ignore him, but when Rhodey opened his door to see Justin, he quickly closed to door in the other boys face and leaned his whole weight against it as Justin tried to push his way in.

“I want them back!” Justin growled, slamming his shoulder against the door.

“Too late!” Rhodey snapped. “They don’t want to see you!”

There was a pause. “What?”

“I told you I activated their AI,” Rhodey said, peeved. “Put it together, genius.”

“They’re… aware?”

“Sure are, no thanks to you. And that means their first memory is you angry and trying to control them and trying to killing me. They don’t want to see you!”

There was another beat of silence. “They…”

Rhodey sighed and closed his eyes, tapping his forehead against the door. “You used me to make them,” he said, voice cracking. “And I trusted you with this. And you fucked it up. You used me, don’t you understand that? The least you can do is just… not, okay? Just… please, don’t.”

The silence was dark and quiet, the apprehension in the air thick enough to cut.

“Okay,” Justin said. “I’ll leave you and them alone.”

“Thank you,” Rhodey said, and listened to Justin’s shoes click down the halls, away from the door.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t a surprise that one day, when he was checking on his cameras to see if Brant was going to try something new, that he heard something he was honestly waiting for.

“Greg, this was a bust.” Brant sighed. “I’ve gotten diddly squat from the kid. Hell, he’s gotten my little idiot arrested. Fines, probation, the whole shtick. I- honestly, I just want him out. Can we make it happen soon? This is just… frustrating. You said that would be good, that we’d get Stark designs, guns, good ones, but what do I get? Rockets and court hearings. And some shit about robots. I don’t give a fuck about robots, Greg. I don’t.”

There was a pause. “Yeah. I’ll spin some stuff about Justin needing a more stable home and how the next house will be better for the kid. It isn’t hard, really. It’s no different than a PR conference. Use the right words, lie a bit, home run. Just do it soon.”

Brant drew back and pulled a bottle from a drawer in his desk. “And no, because this brilliant plan of yours failed, the promotion will have to be rediscussed. I had money riding on this and I lost my investment, didn’t I? No, I won’t fire you, you’re a good guy, Greg, but I can’t reward this failure. I’m no pushover. Okay, great. See you Friday.”

Rhodey sighed and pulled off his headset, leaning back in his swivel chair and sighing. He just felt done, overworked, exhausted, annoyed.

Rhodey turned to his soldiers, rubbing his face. “Looks like we’re being reassigned,” he said, letting out a noise of exhaustion. “Let’s keep packing up on the down low, though. Until Brant says I’m moving houses officially. Shit, I’m going to have to get those cameras, aren’t I?”

Rhodey leaned forward, cupping his face with both hands. “I’m so tired of this. I miss Tony.”

Butters and U looked up and wheeled over slightly, beeping in inquiry.

“Maybe later, guys. I’ll get a facetime up tomorrow. I’m going to bed. You guys know what to do to take care of yourselves.”

Rhodey took a shower, brushed his teeth, dressed in his pajamas and climbed into bed. Sweetheart, Jason, and Peep got settled in their blanket nest, going into sleep mode one by one. Butterfingers and U slid into their power station and went still and silent.

Rhodey pulled out his phone.

_Rocketman: everythign sucks_

_Milliondollerbaby: yep that’s about how it goes. What’s wrong?_

_Rocketman: brant. He gave up on his plan to use me so now I’m moving houses._

_Milliondollerbaby: dude_

_Rocketman: yeah. Hey, can you record yourself playign some piano for me? I just want to go to bed right now._

_Milliondollerbaby: give me ten min._

Ten minutes later, Rhodey opens an audio file and listens to Tony play Chopin, Nocturne op.9 No.2. Rhodey didn't know the first thing about identifying music, but Tony always includes titles for his music. The sounds of the piano follow him into his dreams, where Rhodey finds himself walking along a road made of piano keys, trying to find something but never sure what.

 

* * *

 

Getting moved honestly isn’t so bad. Rhodey is well prepared. His bots are all ready to go, Tony’s are in their case, his clothes are all together, and he has got everything ready to set ship and head out. He managed to get a bunch of parts and sneak his camera out of their hiding spots too. His parents' flags and metals are safely tucked away, he’s got his tools, and honestly, he was just kind of relieved.

Justin said goodbye to him awkwardly, an ankle monitor strapped to his leg, and he didn't meet any of the bots eyes from where they peek out of Rhodey’s duffel bag. The adults give Rhodey an equally cold farewell, though they try to mask it better. His CPS agents took him to the next house and Rhodey has a hard time forgetting that Brant’s guy, Greg, paid this agent off to bring Rhodey to the Hammers instead of doing whatever home matching actually goes on.

But, with luck, the same thing isn’t going to happen.

The next house is a much more reasonable size. A two story house with a bunch of bikes and sports equipment lying on the front lawn. Lacrosse stuff, a soccer ball, a football, a tennis ball, a few rather chewed up frisbees (they must have a dog, then, or at least, he hopes) and a few hockey stocks. There’s a metal fence around the front yard, turning to disappear behind the house and surround the back.

A little memory of getting physically pushed inside a locker by soccer players came back to Rhodey and a tiny part of his mind went ‘ _oh, no_ .’ He noticed a few boys upstairs open the window to look out. They look big and athletic. One is even wearing some sort of sports jersey. Rhodey’s mind, once again, went  _‘oh no_!’

The rational part of his mind tells him that not everybody is like that, but as he got out of the car and gathers his stuff, he can’t help but feel a sense of apprehension. Rhodey lets out a breath and grabs his bags.

The foster parents, Sophie and Theodore Hapskin, seem nice and sort of sporty. Sophie was black and Theodore was white and the amalgamation of kids they were fostering, eight total, including Rhodey, were a mix of everything in between. Sophie was some sort of personal trainer and Theodore was a football coach at the local high school. They were the proud owners of a yellow lab that Rhodey was honestly scared to death of. It was so hyper and kept trying to jump up on him and lick his face. Its nails were scratchy and the dog was a bit stronger than Rhodey was.

The boys, Noah, Jesus (called Zeus, because apparently, he was as fast as lightning on the football field), Mason, Tyson, Jayden, Hunter, and Christian (who was Jewish, ironically), were all about fifteen and at least four inches taller than Rhodey at the very least.

Rhodey was in one large room, possibly a second living room, with four bunk beds, four dressers with four drawers each, two bookshelves, two desks, and a big walk-in closet. Well, it might have been a regular large closet for the living room, but now it was full of clothes and sports gear. A huge pile of laundry sat by the door, and he could smell old sweat from all across the room. All the t-shirts and jerseys and protective gear made Rhodey’s carefully folded polo shirts really stand out.

He felt like Tony is slightly more justified in making fun of them, but they’re comfortable! And you don’t have to over think what you need to wear because all polos just about match with everything, at least, they always match with blue jeans and black converse. Plus, socially, polo’s fit anywhere. They’re slightly more formal, but the way it’s presented, (tucked into your pants or not) changes it from casual to moderately formal in a snap. And they come in all colors.

Rhodey got the bottom bunk farthest from the door and the bottom half of the dresser for his stuff. His parents flags, his books, his tools, and he shoves his spare parts under the bed. He puts the claw bots on the bed to turn on later, sets Jason, Peep, and Sweetheart down as well, and continues following the Hapskins through the tour.

The dining room was more like a mess hall, a long table with benches attached to a decent sized kitchen. The living room has three full sized couches and a large coffee table, there are three bathrooms, an office, a recreation/game room, a huge backyard, a basement outfitted to be a gym, and a garage. The garage has a motorcycle, two dirt bikes, a truck, and a van, big enough for eight.

It also has a large workbench with some basic tools that look scarcely used. They even had a circular saw. Well, that was for wood, but if Rhodey needed to make something out of wood, it would be useful. There were wrenches of all sizes, screwdrivers, hammers, socket wrenches, jars full of various screw sizes and nails, pliers, levels. All things he had, but he never had such a variety. They also had car stuff, like car jacks, jumper cables and a bunch of old parts.

“And, that’s it,” Theodore said. “We have to do a lot or repairs, so this is where you get stuff to patch up a busted stair or what not. If we ask you to get a hammer or something, that’s where you’ll find them.”

“Who owns the motorcycle?” Rhodey asked, crouching down to get a good look at it.

“Uh, me, actually. It stopped running a while ago, but it was a present from my father, so I… don’t have the heart to get rid of it. The repair guy gave me a hefty estimate and we might have money, but we’d rather not fork over that much for something we don’t really need repaired. We have the truck and van, after all.”

“Hmm,” Rhodey said, starting to fiddle around with the parts. He pulled on his visor glasses and started trying to identify the problem. “A problem with the electrical system and valvetrain?”

“Uh, yeah, actually.”

Rhodey could probably fix it, but now Theodore was looking at him strangely, so Rhodey coughed and stood, wiping his hands off on an abandoned rag. “It’s a shame, it’s a nice bike.”

 

* * *

 

After dinner, spaghetti and meatballs, Rhodey went to the shared bedroom/living room to get Tony’s bots turned on. The Toy Soldiers, who were playing on Rhodey’s tablet under the covers, immediately began beeping at Butters and U.

“Wait, wait, you two, don’t get into anything yet. Our spot is  _just_  this bed. Everybody else owns the rest. You can go under and stuff, and the bottom two drawers of this dresser here are ours, but that’s about it.”

The Toy Soldiers understood and the claw bots rolled under the bed. Rhodey set U and Butter’s charging stations under the bed, because it was near the outlet. “You sure you don’t mind being down here when my bots are up top?” he asked. “It doesn’t look good and I can figure something out if you want me to.”

Butterfingers pointedly slid back into his dock and stared at Rhodey. U snuggled in as well.

“Fair enough,” he said. He also plugged in the Toy Soldiers chargers and wired them up onto the top of the bed. Rhodey set up a sheet around the outside of his bunk for privacy, as some of the other boys had taken to, and lay down, staring up at the bars supporting the upper bunk. Rhodey pulled out his phone.

_Rocketman: well, im here_

_Milliondollerbaby: how is it?_

_Rocketman: jocks_

_Milliondollerbaby: AHHHHHH KILL IT WITH FIRE_

_Rocketman: omg tony they just do sports its not the end of the world_

_Milliondollerbaby: a thousand bucks on u getting swirlied within the month_

_Rocketman: fuck you_

_Milliondollerbaby: lol_

_Rocketman: idk, they seem okay actually._

_Milliondollerbaby: fingers crossed and good electricity to you bc i don’t believe in vibes. Keep me posted. How are my babies?_

_Rocketman: just fine. They’re exploring._

_Milliondollerbaby: i love it when they do that so cute, and your baby bots?_

_Rocketman: doing okay, idk what they think of moving houses, but they didn’t like justin. Also, we’re still learning sign, and they can use a lot of words now, which is making communication easier._

_Milliondollerbaby: yay!_

 

* * *

 

Considering that Rhodey was sleeping in the same room as seven jocks, he should have expected snoring. Beside that, the dog has a favorite person (Christian, who sleeps in the bottom of the bunk next to Rhodey) and the dog  _smells_. Rhodey legitimately can’t sleep with the sound of three different pitches of snoring and a dog smell in his nose. Rhodey sighed and sat up, rubbing his face.

He wanted to go home. He misses his parents, he misses Tony, and he was tired of people, in all honesty. Everything just felt too  _real_ , too… quiet. Rhodey slides out of bed and dresses in regular clothes. He Took his tools and clicks his phone light on.

One of the bots sat up and looked over, blue light peeking through the darkness and dispersing over the sheet. Rhodey waits for a second and Jason pushes the sheet over to the side.

“You weren’t sleeping?”

Jason shakes his head and makes a motion, then putting his hands by his ears. Or, where ears would be.

“Yeah, they snore like buzzsaws. Come on, I’m going to the garage. Want to come help me out?”

Jason nodded and slid out of the bed. Rhodey grabbed his laptop and, with Jason hanging onto his shirt, quietly exited the house. Upon entering the garage, Rhodey left the front open and turned on the lights.

“See that bike? We’re going to fix the bad boy up.”

Jason saluted in agreement and they got to work. Rhodey didn’t have any professional equipment, but he made do. He ran diagnostic tests, he figured out what was wrong with the electrical system (fucked up wires and junk), he worked on the valve train and the other problems that would lead to failures. Jason was an enormous help because he had such small hands and could reach anywhere without having to open up the bike.

After finishing that up, Rhodey opened up the hood of the truck and started doing maintenance.

He woke up in the same place, slumped over wires and tubes and the engine. Jason was sitting on his back, keeping guard, and slid off when Rhodey groaned and started pushing himself up. Rhodey coughs against the smell of motor oil and grease and half expects Tony to come to groaning next to him, just like how all their engineering binges go. He expects to look down and be disgusted at the state of himself and Tony to start roasting him for looking ashy and oily at the same time.

But it’s not quite like that anymore.

His head hurts, he was still tired, and welp, there's Theodore stalking towards the garage and looking relieved and confused.

“James? The hell are you doing in the garage?”

Rhodey rubbed his face and realized that his hands were covered in so much oil that the touch was slick. “Oh, that’s nasty!” Rhodey groused, pulling his hand away and seeing just how black and stained it was with grime.

“The question, James,” Theodore repeated, putting a hand on his hip.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I fixed the bike,” Rhodey said. “And went through... most a check-up with the truck.”

“You-” Theodore started. He stopped himself and pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket, walking over and straddling the bike, putting the key in and revving the engine. “I’ll be damned.”

Rhodey yawned. “Yeah, that’d be the Ph.D. in Rocket Science and Engineering.”

With Theodore too invested in his motorcycle to reply, Rhodey grabbed Jason and they went inside. Rhodey waited for Zeus to finish his shower and took the next, washing oil and grit down the drain as Jason took a moist paper towel and cleaned off as well. Rhodey changed into fresh clothes and put Jason back at their corner so he could recharge. Peep and Sweetheart were under the bed, playing chess on Rhodey’s table. Butters and U were watching and pointing.

“You guys good?”

They gave a thumbs up.

 

* * *

 

From there, there was a subtle change. After he finished dealing with the truck and did a check of the car, Sophie asked him to see if he could fix her old laptop, which mysteriously stopped working one day. She had just been using her husband’s since, and it wasn’t a bother, but if Rhodey fixed it, she would be very grateful.

Rhodey agreed. He spent the afternoon doing some simple diagnostics and finding out what was wrong. Simple fried hard drive. It just needed to be replaced. Rhodey explained to her what the problem was and told her that he’d fix it if she ordered a new one, which was about thirty dollars or so.

Later, he watched some pirated movies because he couldn’t find the one he wanted on Netflix. The bots joined him and enjoyed watching Meet the Robinsons.

Peep pointed excitedly at the screen.

“No, I can’t build a time machine, I don’t have a Doctorate in Physics.”

Peep wilted and fell over into pillow dramatically.

“But I can find out his to sign ‘time machine,’ if you want.”

Peep clapped excitedly.

The next day Rhodey worked to fix the water filtration system of the refrigerator so people could use the water and ice dispenser again.

The days blurred together and he continued to work on new projects. He fixed the internet router to work better, he cleared viruses off of one of the other boy's computers (virus Rhodey recognized as being from porn websites because he had done this before at MIT for a desperate guy who needed to finish his thesis paper) and performed maintenance for the cars and motorcycle.

He was elbow deep in a washing machine in the basement when the realization hit him and he stopped short.  _They were just using him again_. Sophie and Theodore asked him to fix thing like he was a big help, but they never asked how he was doing or what he was doing to fix the problems. None of the other boys did so either. They only time they talked, really, is when Rhodey was fixing something of theirs.

“Son of a bitch,” he said aloud in surprise.

He honestly didn’t expect it, not even after his whole deal at the Hammers. He hadn’t worked on anything he was interested in in over a week. He wasn’t even sure what  _his bots, his baby bots_ , were doing right now. He rushed through repairs and shoves the washer back into place, rushing up the stairs and to the room. Under the bed, the bots are rolling around a baseball, looking board out of their minds.

“Hey, guys,” Rhodey said breathlessly. They all look over to him, straightening. Tony’s bots look over too. “Listen, I’m sorry I got caught up in work stuff, but I’m done now, so why don’t we try something fun?”

Butterfingers rolled over along with U and made inquisitive sounds.

Rhodey scratched his head. “That’s, uh, well we could try baking or something. I know you don’t eat, but it could be fun to learn how. Plus, I eat, so I can tell you how you guys do.”

Sweetheart beeped in agreement and looked to Jason and Peep. They nodded and pulled themselves up. Rhodey slid back to let them out from under the bed and picked them up. He walked to the kitchen and placed them on the island countertop.

“Alright, so here’s the plan. I’m gonna get out a baking cookbook, and you guys agree on a recipe. I need to take a quick shower and change, and then I’ll be right back.”

Rhodey rummages around for the perfect book (a new one Sophie must have bought when she took Rhodey in because it had lactose-free recipes in it) and then puts it on the counter, opening it for the bots. “‘Alright, you guys take a look and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Rhodey washed off and changed into a fresh pair of pants, a red polo, black socks, and lotioned up. Satisfied, Rhodey went back to the kitchen to see what the bots had decided on. U and Butterfingers were still where Rhodey left him, but now the book was propped up against a tissue box and the Toy Soldiers were hard at work collecting ingredients from around the kitchen. Jason was working on getting a bag of sugar up, Sweetheart had a carton of eggs, and Peep had their hands in some baking powder, playing with it.

“I hope you guys washed your hands first,” he said, helping Peep first. The bot pointed at a discarded antibacterial wipe next to the sink. “Alright, fair enough.”

The bots decided on a simple chocolate cake with frosting. It looked really good in the picture supplied, with a neat decorative flower design in the center. Rhodey helped put together the materials needed, got measuring cups and all that jazz, and followed along with the robots as they made their valiant attempt. Mixing, pouring, measuring, they finally got the final product into the over, at the correct pre-heated temperature, with only two broken eggs and a dusting of flour to show for it.

Rhodey attempted to brush his clothes off but failed a bit. The bots, minus Peep, who was full on standing under the sink’s spray, were using damp wash clothes to clean up and helping Butterfingers and U get tidy as they did so.

“So how was that?” Rhodey asked. “You guys like it?”

Jason shrugged, but nodded, U squealed in glee, Sweetheart gave a solid thumbs up, and Peep, who was now floating in an almost full sink on their back like it was a vacation, made an affirming noise. Butterfingers, however, was just staring at the countertop they had been working on.

“Uh, Butters?” Rhodey asked. “You alright?”

Butterfingers stared at Rhodey.

“Scale of one to ten, how much did you like it, ten being absolute joy?”

Butterfingers tapped on the countertop…. Twenty seven times.

Rhodey, a little unsure what to do about the utter control Butterfinger had right now despite what appeared to be absolute ecstasy, patted his claw. “That’s good! You’re welcome to make things whenever you like. I’m sure me or the other bots will be able to help if you need it. And hey, we still have to decorate the cake!”

Amazingly, the cake came out perfectly and was placed on a large plate to cool. They made chocolate frosting and worked to slather it on as Butterfingers carefully made another colored frosting. Pink, purple, green, yellow, and red.

Once the cake was perfect, they took a break and let Butterfingers do the decorations. Rhodey left his laptop out for him and watched Butterfingers youtube how to make flowers with frosting as well as look up reference images. In the end, Butterfingers did a neat simple Celtic knot in green, for the stems, and carefully crafted daisies, roses, and lilies along it.

“Wow,” Rhodey commented, seriously impressed. “You did a beautiful job.”

The Toy Soldiers beeped and nodded in agreement as U cooed and rounded the cake to get all the angles.

“Why don’t we send a pic to Tony? I bet he’d love to see what you did,” Butterfingers rolled back and forth in excitement as Rhodey pulled out his phone. “Alright, everybody get in the picture.”

Butterfingers held the pink frosting as a prop, U hovered in the background posing as if cackling in glee, and the soldiers all made equally ridiculous poses with each other. “Awesome, got it!”

Rhodey quickly sent it and almost just as quickly received a reply.

_Milliondollerbaby: MY BABIES DID THAT?! I’M SO FUCKIGN PROUD, OH MY GOD, IT LOOKS SO GOOD! WHO DID THE FLOWERS? I LOVE IT SO MUCH, OH MY TESLA FUCKING GOD_

“He says he loves it and he’s super proud,” Rhodey translated for the bots.

_Rocketman: yeah, butters loves baking apparently and did the flowers all by himself_

Tony’s reply was completely illegible, but Rhodey set back a smiley face in reply anyway. “Now, let's try it. Let me get a knife.” After getting a plate, a fork, and the cutting knife, he carefully cut himself a slice and at Butterfingers little jerk of… horror, sadness, surprise? Rhodey stopped.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he immediately reassured. “I know it sucks to see your hard work ruined, right? But think of it this way. It can’t stay here forever. If we just leave it out it'll get hard and gross and attract ants or something and end up in the trash, which is worse, right? If it got eaten, people get to enjoy its beauty and flavor. And I have our picture, right? So you can always look back on it and show off what you guys did as a team.”

Butterfinger relaxes and Rhodey finally serves himself. It looked fluffy and delicious. The first bite is like a chocolate cloud in his mouth and he can’t help the satisfied groan. “That is amazing. You guys did a fantastic job, seriously.”

The flavors blended perfectly and practically melted in his mouth. The thick chocolate frosting enhanced the flavors and brought the whole thing together perfectly. Rhodey put the rest of the cake in a cake preservation container he found and cleaned up with a bit of help.

“So, what should we do now? We could go outside instead of staying in,” he offered.

They loved the idea, so Rhodey took them all out back and sat on the porch as the bots ran or rolled around. The Toy Soldiers eventually went to climb the tree, a small one luckily, a growing sapling that reached maybe fifteen feet in height. Jason was having a blast, climbing as high as he was able, but Sweetheart was just sitting contently in the lower branches. Peep was… busy trying to get a plank of wood up with them, likely as a platform. Rhodey jogged over and helped without a word, putting Peep on the sturdy platform with it.

Peep gave a solid thumbs up.

“Glad to help.”

U and Butterfingers rolled across Rhodey’s feet and Rhodey helped them start a game of catch, or rather, roll back and forth. It was nice.

And then Rhodey realized that he was effectively a father, and started mentally screaming.

_Rocketman: TONY WHAT THE FUCK MAN IM A GODDAMN FATHER_

_Milliondollerbaby: yeah, lol, it finally hit you huh took me a while too b/c it doesn’t seem like it’s the same thing until you do a parent thing_

_Milliondollerbaby: okay, now listen closely_

Rhodey stared at the screen, waiting for the next message anxiously. The realization that he was caring for five bots, five  _kids_  effectively, and was in charge of their safety, for introducing recreation and socialization, for helping them learn and develop, for being there for them 100% was big. He was thirteen. He was just thirteen! And a father of, well, technically three and fostering two more!

_Milliondollerbaby: /You are just fine./_

Rhodey blinked in surprise.

_Milliondollerbaby: it seems like a lot, you have all these new responsibilities, you have all these worries and doubts and fears, but it’s okay! Your bots look up to you, yes, but you’ve already been doing a great job, and yeah, i’m sure you’ll make mistakes but so will they. Everybody makes them. I named my bots dummy and butterfingers and u! Objectively, thats a little fucked up! But I learned from that and named my next AI JARVIS, after my actual father figure because it’s something respectable and thought out._

_Milliondollerbaby: you are learning too! They are learning and you are learning, it’s a joint process! Do you realize how amazing that is? You made something that can experience life in the same way you do, you made new life that can learn and make decisions and love and hate and use their emotions to do wonders, just like you!!!_

_Milliondollerbaby: life is amazing. It’s stupid, and it’s horrible, and it’s crazy and unpredictable and it’s full of wonder and experiences and laughter and joy and pain and the world houses all of this. Things are black and white and gray and you realize that you can appreciate people, and robots, and AI’s for their personhood, for their history, for their mistakes and failures and successes. You can make opinions and judgments and give people forgiveness._

_Milliondollerbaby: you put a soul into something new and unique. You created something that stands for everything that life does, and that’s incredible. Celebrate it, do fun things with your bots, be with them during the hard times. exist! Thrive! Learn! Love! You can do it because you are able to!_

_Milliondollerbaby: so yeah, youre a dad, but so what? You and your baby bots have so much to do together, so much to learn and experience, that all your worries, though valid, shouldn’t weight you down and keep you from enjoying the experience!_

Rhodey was kind of dumbstruck by that.

_Rocketman: wow. That… incredible, tones. I never really thought about it that way. How long did it take you to figure all of that out?_

_Milliondollerbaby: like, months. Youre lucky you have me to ease the transition._

_Rocketman: yeah I am, aren’t i?_

_Milliondollerbaby: gtg, smooches! Have fun, play with your bots!_

_Rocketman: thanks tones, i will_

_Milliondollerbaby: wait, i have to go to a gala and can’t decide which earrings to use; the gold pearls or my amber ones drip shaped ones with the bee hexagons along the top_

_Rocketman: what kind of dress_

_Milliondollerbaby: the white one with the fancy gold/yellow stitching and black leggings_

_Rocketman: pearls_

_Milliondollerbaby: thx ttyl ily_

 

* * *

 

“Would you mind looking at the toaster? It’s been acting funny since Noah spilled soup into it,” Theodore asked a few weeks later, poking his head into the room Rhodey sleeps in.

Rhodey immediately tenses. “Sorry, I’m busy working on a personal project today,” he lies, not looking up from his computer, automatically pulling up some old blueprints. He was actually skyping with Tony, one earbud in in case there were ears around.

Theodore frowns. “I really need it working, James.”

“You could always ask Sophie, she has a minor in engineering, or get it looked at by a professional repair-person,” Rhodey suggested.

“Please, you almost never help out any other way around the house, it’s only fair that you take a look.”

Which, okay, is a total lie. Yesterday when they were out Rhodey got bored and managed to do the dishes, clean the living room, play chess with Peep, and clean up the room he lived in, dumping peoples junk in their beds or throwing smelly clothes into the hamper. Besides that, he fixed problems in all three vehicles, fixed multiple computers and phones, repaired the washer and dryer to work better and so on.

He did his part, is the point.

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy. This project is time sensitive,” he said.

“What are you even doing that’s  _so much more important_  than helping this family?” Theodore asked, annoyed.

“I’m helping my friend, uh, with a project they’re consulting on for the military,” he lies. “And the deadline is like, tomorrow.”

The man sighed, still annoyed. “Well, fine. Whatever. I’ll make due, I suppose.” With that comment, he leaves.

Rhodey Took a second and then minimizes the blueprints to look at Tony’s face, which is doing an annoyed, disgusted, disbelieving look.

“Is that bitch for real?” Tony asked, incredulous. “Just yesterday you fixed his coffee machine that got hit by the football?”

“I fucking know, right?” Rhodey murmurs back. “It’s really getting on my nerves. I’ve spent so much time with you talking about toxic behaviors that I realized what they were doing right away, but like, that shit makes me feel bad! It’s like I’m in the wrong, but like, I have given more than my fair share and they have, not once, asked how I was doing.”

“The worst part is, they probably don’t even realize what they’re doing,” Tony adds. “People just get sucked into their own problems and forget that other people have lives. But it’s gross! And toxic!”

Rhodey scoffs. “Yeah it is. Anyway, I was doing some research on laser technology and I think I’m onto something. It would need an incredible power source, but if I’m right, it could be put in specific rigs to cut metals into specific shapes with ease. Kind of like a 3D printed, but with, you know… lasers. And I’m not talking about engravings. I’m talking about like, lightsabers. As in they can manipulate their endpoint in order to make those shapes.”

“Ooh,” Tony said, leaning forward. “I’m listening.”

“I don’t know what the effect of the lasers hitting each other would be, but I don’t think it would actually be like lightsabers.”

“Lame.”

“I mean, but lasers.”

“I’ll make an allowance. Send me over what you have and I’ll see what I can find out from my end.”

“I gotcha.”

“How are my baby bots?”

“They’re good,” Rhodey said. “Butters is turning into like, a legit baker though. It’s scaring me and making these sportsmen gain pounds from cake and cookies and shit. Sweetheart and U are still all about flight, so I make sure they can go out in the drone sometimes.”

“And Jason?”

“Doin’ fine. I did find out why he named himself Jason, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know Batman?”

“Sure.”

“Think Red Hood.”

“Oh my Tesla. That guy got beaten to death with a crowbar and came back as like, some assassin with crazy knives. That’s… dark?”

“Yeah, I don’t know how to feel about it, but he loves it, so all the power to him.”

“Of course, of course. So he’s a DC fan?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Can’t blame him.”

“I like DC too,” Tony said. “I feel a kinship to Batman, but a fondness for Wonder Woman. But only when she’s well written and drawn. It doesn't make sense for her to be a twig. She’s like a demigod and I expect the arms and legs of such a demigod. Do not give that immortal warrior princess these twigs or I will break you like one.”

“Those are some strong feelings man.”

“It’s a strong feeling. Oh, how do you like my  _ensemble_?”

Tony backed up from his camera and spun. He was wearing a solid tank top underneath some sort of white partially see-through sweater with long sleeves and a veil like black ankle length skirt that had underwear built into it, giving the appearance of Tony wearing short shorts.

Rhodey felt such a rush of fondness and appreciation that he couldn’t help the delighted smile that came to his face. “Ooh! My boy is looking classy and beautiful as all hell today! Wow! You look fabulous!”

Tony beamed and brought his hands up to his face, giving a little twirl.

“Ooh! And that twirl! The flow of that skirt makes a spin a thing of wonder, Tones. You look better than any runway model, I swear it on the first Tesla coil.”

“Oh honey drop,” Tony said flirtily. “You’ll give me a complex.”

Rhodey laughed, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey’s morning was going as well as any morning when he heard a screech of fear and heard something that sounded like something was kicked and slammed into the wall. Concerned, Rhodey jogged out of the room and froze at the end of the hall.

Jason was laying in a crumpled heap at the end of the hall, chest cracked in a jagged line and making this raw buzzing crackling sound that to any other ear might sound like some kind of fucked up static, but to Rhodey sounded like a pained scream.

Sophie was pressed up against the wall in shock, staring at the robot. “What the fuck is that?!” She shouted.

Rhodey felt cold horror and overwhelming pain at seeing his bot like that, so ruined and in so much pain. His heart leapt into his throat as panic for his bot took over. Rhodey’s mind completely blanked, and with numb lips he managed to say something along the lines of ‘mine’ and ‘don’t touch him!’

He slid down the hall and dropped to his knees, cradling his broken bot in his hands. Jason was in the equivalent of robot agony. His internal units were all kinds of fucked up from being shifted and the moderate damage the shifted tech caused resulted in periodic and uncontrollable spasms that had to be horrible and frightening. Having no control over your own body had to be a terrifying experience, coupled with the fact that your own chest was broken open and you could see what were effectively your organs…

Rhodey turned Jason off to put him out of his pain. It had the same effect of a medically induced coma and would give Rhodey the chance to fix his little bot. It was as he tried to see about the damage that Rhodey realized none of the Hapskins realized that he had five AI’s hidden away in his room and that they had never met any of them.

He remembered painfully watching Space Odyssey with the family and hearing their remarks of ignorance surrounding AI’s. It wasn't anything new, plenty of people were wary of artificial intelligences, joking about how the AI overlords would rule the world one day and kill off humanity for some reason or another, but Rhodey knew that the Hapskins didn’t like him that much anyway and wouldn’t react well to the bots at all.

“It’s a remote control toy,” he said blankly, the lie tasting bitter and ashy in his mouth. “I was using my phone in my room to test hi- it out.”

“It scared the  _crap_  out of me,” Sophie said, putting her hand on her chest. “I’m running off an adrenaline rush now. It just started runnin’ at me and I freaked. Kicked it right in the torso on instinct. Always had more of a fight reflex than a flight one.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey said numbly. “I’ll go see what I can do about patching it up.”

He walked through a haze to his room and gently placed Jason on the desk available to him. Sweetheart and Peep climbed up. Sweetheart gasped immediately and turned to Peep, who hugged her on instinct, not looking away as a hand shot to their face. Butterfingers and U rolled under Rhodey’s chair, anxiously waiting for news.

“I’ve got him,” Rhodey said desperately. “He’ll be okay, he has to be.”

Rhodey didn’t have a lot of material on hand. He couldn’t replace the chest piece, so he’d have to weld the crack shut, but that might result in the shape becoming uneven or make it not fit anymore. In order to avoid that, he might have to seal it with another melted metal.

He rummaged through his scraps and used soldering alloy of all things to puzzle piece it together. He’d put another metal over it later to reinforce the material better, but this would work in a pinch. After that, he had to reorganize Jason’s chest and repair a few cracked parts and connect a loose wire.

Finally, with everything fixed and back together perfectly, Rhodey put Jason’s chest plate back on and turned him on. Jason took a second to reconfigure and then slowly sat up, putting a hand on his chest and tracing the visible crack.

“You okay, buddy?” Rhodey asked softly. “Better? Or is something still wrong?”

Jason signed O-K.

“Okay, good,” Rhodey said and let out a relieved breath as the other two soldiers rushed over and dropped to their knees, checking Jason over themselves and hugging Jason or tenderly touching the damaged part of his chest as if to reassure themselves that Jason was fixed. It made Rhodey’s chest hurt, with pain and guilt and the rushing cold feeling of grief and even more guilt.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out in a pained voice, eyes burning. They looked to him. “That shouldn’t have happened to you at all. I’m supposed to protect you, you’re my bots, I’m supposed to be there for you, but I never told the Hapskins that I have you guys and Sophie freaked and hurt you, she hurt you bad, buddy. That kills me that you’re not safe here. You’re not, none of you are, not the way you should be. They fear AI’s, I knew this, but I never said anything and you wound up hurt. I’m supposed to protect you…” Rhodey managed before the lump in his throat became too much and he had to wipe tears from his eyes and try to breathe deeply to avoid sobbing straight out.

He felt one of his bots touch his arm and he looked up. Peep was there, patting him as if their reassurance would fix the problem.

“No, it’s not okay,” Rhodey rasped. “I want you safe to explore and do things and not live on or under a fucking  _bed_. I want to build you guys your own room, with a baking area for Butters and an awesome miniature household so you guys can do what you like and play games and run around freely and use the drone to explore, and when you make a mess because it happens, I make messes all the time too, U can house clean and organize things like she always wanted to and go on flights with Sweetheart. I want the best for you, but all I have is a bed and two drawers and sometimes I get reign of the house because I don’t go to school and everybody else has friends or work or somewhere to go. This isn’t good, this isn’t normal! This isn’t how it should be! But this is all I have. I don’t have a home anymore… All I have is five bots and a bed.”

A sob manages to tear its way from Rhodey’s throat.

“I’m just a kid, just a teenager. I miss my parents every day. I miss my home, I miss my room, I miss my momma, and my dad and all the things we did together. I miss their smiles and laughter and the times we cooked together and even getting yelled at and threatened with a wooden spoon when I did something wrong. It hurts so much to remember that I’ll never get that again because of some terrorists in Afghanistan and a fucking RPG that managed to find it’s mark.

“It was safe there, you would have loved it there. We had a big backyard with a tree perfect for climbing, you could get two stories up there easily and you would have loved fall because we could make leaf piles the size of trucks.”

Rhodey shifts in the seat, keeping a hand over his eyes to prevent tears from falling and the other he puts down to hold his weight.

“But now I’m in a house with a family who just wants my ability to fix shit and I get a bed for it. It’s not fair to me, and it’s not fair to you,” Rhodey finished, forcing back another lump in his throat. “But I’m too selfish to send you to Tony because then I won’t have anyone here to talk to or care for. I’d go crazy in a month. It’d all get to me, the pain, the loneliness, the reality of everything. I already miss Tony so much and I talk to him all the time.”

Sweetheart and Jason managed to get over to him and stand with Peep, who’s hugging his upper arm as they listen. Jason sat and throws his arms over Rhodey’s forearm almost protectively as Sweetheart sat and tried to tangle herself with Rhodey's hand, holding his thumb for good measure in one tiny hand.

“I’m so sorry,” Rhodey said, lip trembling as Butterfingers grabs his pant leg to reaffirm his presence and U puts her arm and claw over his shoe like a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

 

* * *

 

“Are… are you serious?” Rhodey asked. “You want a  _tank_?”

Jason, with a jagged silver mark over his chest since Rhodey was finally able to melt a stronger metal over the bot’s chest to make sure it can’t break so easily again, nods seriously and points to the tablet again.

“Honestly, I’m not sure we could pull that off, buddy. Not without some serious work just in the planning stages. I don’t even have the material needed to make something like that. After I built my portable laser cutter, I can hardly make some of the repairs they keep asking me to do,” Rhodey explained.

Jason tapped on the tablet and switched tabs. ‘Nearby scrap yards’ was typed into the search bar.

“Okay fine, let’s say it’s possible. If I make you your tank, it’s not fair of me to also not get Peep and Sweetheart their own vehicle. Peep would want a boat or a sub because they love water so much, and Sweetheart I know would like her own aircraft, so that’s even more planning and more materials needed. Also, what you chose will have to be electric powered or manually powered, so effort will have to be made on your part or moderation maintained so you don’t get stranded where you chose to go. Frankly, it’s a huge task and, of course, I will need a lot of help. I won’t be able to spend as much time with you guys or Tony’s bots. If you can all agree on these things together, I’ll consider it, but you need to understand this is not an overnight thing.”

Jason nodded and pulled the tablet under the bed with him.

After a sturdy three hours of debate, Jason dragged the tablet back out, a word document open with a handful of lines.

“Oh, jeez.”

_‘We've come to an agreement that, all bots created equal, each shall be allowed a vehicle. The soldier will receive a tank, the sailor will receive a ship, and the pilot will receive an aircraft capable of vertical lift off. Assistance will be provided at any time necessary no matter how long the project takes. Butterfingers wants a modified easy bake oven and a box of cooking supplies before these operations and U would like her drone to be further modified after to make up for missed time._

_X-_ Peep _,_ **Jason** _, Sweetheart,_ _Butterfingers_ _,_ _U_ _’_

Well, it was… clear.

“Alright. Fair enough. I’ll start working on some designs and call up Tony.”

Tony, on the other hand, was thrilled. He basically had three designs started by the time Rhodey finished explaining.

“I’ll send over some baking stuff for Butterfingers,” Tony said excitedly. “And I have JARVIS on some origami research, which can be implemented in self-folding mechanisms to make it easier for you to transport. Once he has a perfect understanding, I can have him look at common designs for those crafts and generate some basic designs we can work off of. I know you’ll have to work on most of these yourself, and you want to, ew, but I can send over some of the more expensive supplies and you can get a tetanus shot to go to your dirty junkyard.”

“Wow, Tony, thanks,” Rhodey said, deadpan.

Tony shrugged dramatically. “What can I say? I like you better out of the hospital. I’ll throw in a med-kit and some steel-toed boots. Send your foot measurements over to me so they fit.”

“You really don’t have to do all of this,” Rhodey adds.

“We’ve been over this,” Tony assured. “I like spending money on you. I have money to spend on you. More than a person needs, honestly.”

Rhodey sighed. “Alright, fair enough. I just… I feel like I’m not contributing an equal amount to you. You buy me stuff whenever I need it, but I can’t do the same for you. I’m pretty poor, honestly. I mean, I have my parents account when I turn eighteen, but not now. I know it’s nothing to you, but it means a lot to me that you get me these things.”

Tony eyes him carefully, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth as he considers. “Rhodey,” he started slowly. “You are, quite simply, my first and only friend. You are very special to me, you mean a great deal to me because of that. You didn’t bat an eye when you learned that I was Tony Stark, you were there for me through thick and thin, you supported me, and you immediately accepted me when I told you that I’m genderfluid, that I flip between, or are somewhere between, agender and male. That meant a whole lot to me. You tell me I’m beautiful, you compliment my outfits and my designs almost interchangeably.

“I might live in a mansion, but I see my father maybe five times a year. I’m alone here, he never even looks at me, he constantly gets on my nerves and bitches about my work because it’s not all guns and glory, and he calls me a  _boy_  all the time. I know I mostly use he/him and stuff, but he uses it to reinforce the fact that I’m biologically male instead of accepting who I am and using the pronouns I ask him to. It sucks here Rhodey, and just texting you and hearing you call me gorgeous and mean it every time means the fucking world, okay? Throwing money at you is the least I can do for being there for me. And I like it! I’m not like, obligated, and you shouldn’t be either.

“Let's just be… honest with each other. A relationship is give and take, but I think as long as we keep at it, give what we’re comfortable with, we’ll be okay, right?”

Rhodey smiles. “Alright.”

“And one day we’ll get platonically married and you can shower me in compliments as I wear gorgeous clothes and go to galas looking sharp as some truly classy motherfuckers worth more than diamonds.”

“The value of diamonds is artificially inflated,” Rhodey reminded him.

“And ours isn’t? Anyway, I can get JARVIS to do photoshoots of my amazing outfits and you can toss rose petals at me until I start throwing them back and we end up wrestling and trying to shove petals down each other's shirts. We’ll build robots and rockets and AI’s to our hearts content as we share take out of things that don’t have lactose in them and sleep in the same bed with Star Wars pillows and IKEA stuffed animals, like fluffy sharks, and illegally stream DC movies even though I could easily pay for them.”

“That sounds perfect,” Rhodey said honestly, already imagining it.

“Of course it does, it was my idea,” Tony jokes.

Rhodey smiles at Tony in reply.

“Stop giving me that look, I’m going to blush. I’m blushing. Rhodey,  _I’m blushing, stop it_!”

 

* * *

 

As the designs were being worked on by JARVIS, Tony, and Rhodey, the materials needed were still a priority. He took Peep with him to the junkyard, letting them ride in the hood of his jacket instead of in his backpack.

He had his laser with three battery changes and a solar unit in case he needed to recharge, a bottle of water, and his phone, which had the list of materials he needed. He had his specially designed visor on as well, to help him locate specific materials in the piles, so he was basically all set. Tony did actually send him steel toes boots and the first aid kit, but Rhodey only brought bandages and disinfectant. He hopped the fence and started looking around. Peep jumped down and started rummaging through a pile of metal shrapnel.

“Careful not to scuff up your paint job,” Rhodey said. “I can’t really fix that.”

Peep waved him off and Rhodey started trying to track down the parts he needed. He pulled some oil covered spark plugs from cars, a broken car battery, an engine control unit, and using the visor, found some gold, titanium, and stainless steel. They weren’t in their pure form, but he could get what he needed easily enough.

Peep found a crankshaft, a few gears, and a small locket in a crumpled wreck of what might have been a car sometime in the distant past. For some reason, that made Rhodey feel really sad. Rhodey crouched down next to Peep, wiping it off with the bottom of his jacket. It was still a bit rusty, but shinier now. “Do you want to wear it?”

Peep shook their head signed ‘Sweetheart’.

“You want to give it to Sweetheart? Well, that’ll make a nice gift, huh? We’ll probably need to clean it up a bit, but you’ve got a good idea there. Keep hold of it for now. Now come on, I want to get some more titanium.”

As he moved inward, he noticed some people working at the car compactor in the center of the lot, shouting at each other as it made a horrific scratching groaning noise. Peep went rigid immediately and Rhodey felt an awful pang in his chest. He crouched low and picked them up gently. “I’ve got you, baby bot. I’ll just put you in the front pocket so you can see but you don’t have to move. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

Peep hesitantly nodded and let themself be tucked in the front pocket.

“-urn it off, turn it off!” someone shouted as it finally went silent. “Some shit’s stuck in it or something. Fuck, the boss is gonna be pissed, that’s the second time this month!”

“He said he’d take the repair cost from our paychecks, do you think he meant it?”

“He might’ve! Fuck’s sake. Maybe we can get it out?”

“Like we tried last time?”

“It might be stuck a different way.”

“Doubt it.”

There's a minutes pause. “Fuckin’ hell, it is stuck the same way, that cheap shit didn’t fix the machine, he just got the shit outta it.”

And Rhodey is just a dumbass because he called out, “Can I take a look and see if I can do anything?”

One of the workers searches for the source of the voice and then looked down at Rhodey. “The hell’re you doin’ here, kid? You can’t be here! It’s dangerous!”

“If I fix the compactor, will you let me come here for parts?”

“No!”

“Yes! Shut the fuck up! Yeah kid, come take a look, why the fuck not?!” someone else cuts in. “The stairs up are over there!”

Rhodey climbed up and peered into the machine. His visor highlighted the machinery stuck in the mechanism, big grinding gears fixed with teeth meant to shred a car. He could also tell that the teeth weren’t calibrated right from how they were positioned, which meant they had a weakness, or something isn't working right.

“I can fix this,” Rhodey said.

“Bullshit.”

“Let the fucking kid try what he likes, Roberto.”

“Fuck you.”

“No fuck you, we’re fucked if it’s not fixed, and if he somehow makes it more fucked up, we can say some dumb kid was throwing rocks and shit in and it got caught before we could run him off.”

“I have to get down there to clear that away before I can check to see what the real problem is, so please don’t turn it on,” Rhodey said, putting his bag down, making sure it wouldn’t fall forward onto Peep. Rhodey pulled his laser cutter out and messed with the settings as he climbed down. He worked a few pieces loose with his hands, and finally got to the bad part. He turned the laser on and quickly and efficiently cut away the parts jamming the machines.

“Woah, what the hell-?”

Rhodey, finding everything clear to run smoothly, climbed back up and worked his way over to the control room and opened the access panels as well as checking the control system. Everything looked okay up until he linked his phone up to the programming and found a small inconsistency that would affect the spin cycle of the individual gears with teeth.

“Okay, okay, got it. Give me a second to…” Rhodey fixed the code and double checked the sync of the compactor. “Yeah… looks good. Okay, give that a try.”

Roberto winced as if in pain and flipped a switch that turns on warning lights. The rest of the crew took a step back and Roberto turned it on. After an initially squeal, the stuck pieces of car snapped and were quickly chewed up, resulting in a clear rumble and crunch of new pieces of metal and car parts.

The group cheered and Roberto let out a sigh of relief.

“What are you fellas so happy about?!” someone shouted, and the group looked over at an imposing man walking toward the compaction machine like he was ready to fight somebody.

“Oh, shit.”

Because Rhodey had no time to slip away, he was stuck in the middle of an hour long argument. It was exceedingly boring, even though he was a little anxious about the assistant manager's reaction to the whole mess, the air had been cleared after a long discussion, mostly because the owner of the lot, an old guy named Stan, told the assistant manager to eat an egg and gave Rhodey a job offer and a free pass to the junkyard as a consulting repairman. He’d do maintenance on the machinery in the lot, do check-ups, and basically be available. It even meant he’d kind of get his own shed and be able to use the tools provided there.

That’s how Rhodey went home with a bag full of junk, a hard helmet, and a bright orange safety vest. The Hapskins stare at him as if trying to comprehend a complex equation.

“So, I got a job,” Rhodey explains.

When Rhodey told Tony over Skype, he cackled for five minutes straight. Rhodey timed it. “I’m gonna pee myself,” Tony laughed, falling backward on his bed and wildly kicking at the air. “Oh my god, Rhodey!”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up at the glorified garbage man, but at least I have unlimited rights to all the junk I never wanted.”

Tony laughed harder. “This is like either the Aristocats or Lady and the Tramp and I can’t decide what I like better!”

“Aristocats,” Rhodey said after second. “You seem like a Duchess to me. First, you’re more like a cat than a dog, and you look great in white and gold. And you like kids.”

“They’re just so tiny and innocent,” Tony defends himself immediately. “And they don’t know anything so they’re able to learn everything and experience the world for the first time every time! We are adopting at least three children when we get married, no exceptions.” Tony paused. “And thank you.”

Rhodey laughed.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey turns fourteen on a relatively stormy October day. Since he got his own job and a small but decent wage, he had been spending more time at the shed he was allowed than the house he was staying in. He had set up a cot there and everything because he often fell asleep while working on a project. He repaired a trashed mini-fridge, coffee pot, and a space heater and set up seven car batteries with solar panels to provide sustained electrical power to his shed as well. He moved the bots there to be safer, the easy bake oven and all.

Butterfingers regularly made things specifically for Rhodey, without any butter or milk because he was thoughtful and considerate.

Because Rhodey was practically being paid to live in a tiny shed and work around the junkyard, he often ordered food or shopped for his own things to eat too. That meant that the Hapskins promptly forgot that he was lactose intolerant because they often weren’t the ones feeding him as much. Rhodey took the lactose-free cookbook and they never said a thing.

For Rhodey’s fourteenth, they got a nice cake from a bakery (made with milk and butter and all that good ol’ lactose stuff including enough frosting to chock an elephant), and two presents (one from each foster parent, as the other teens were fairly broke and two presents was the rule). He received a remote control toy truck and a heavy duty flashlight. It had magnets on the bottom, was rechargeable, and had two different light sources built into it. A regular one on the top, and the other sild out of the case to provide a sort of small floodlight.

“Thanks,” he managed with a smile, the one Tony taught him to wear when he needed to seem happy when he’d rather be crying or shouting.

He didn’t want to seem ungrateful, and he wasn’t, but he knew the reason Sophie got him the car was because of the incident in the hall and connecting the interaction with ‘he likes things you can remotely control’, and the flashlight from Theodore was one used for cars, mostly. The magnet built into the thing was so it could stick to the car exterior while you worked. As the other teens and the foster parents ate the cake and talked with each other, Rhodey snuck the cake to the dog. It wasn’t chocolate, after all, and he didn’t get a big slice anyway.

He felt cold and alone at that table as Christian and Zeus laughed at something Hunter said about football something or other. He felt lost and out of place as he stared at the remote control car. He swallowed the discomfort down and when everyone was getting ready for bed, Rhodey snuck out and walked to the junkyard, using the flashlight to light his way.

Tony had messaged him. Rhodey didn’t realize until he sat on his cot. He must have muted his phone earlier.

_Milliondollerbaby: hey baby, happy birthday! Hope everything went well on your end. Skype me when you can, and keep an eye out for a package in the mail! I got you a little something! <3 _

Rhodey froze. The trashy shed was noticeable at best and pitiable at worst. He didn’t want to see Tony look so pained at what Rhodey was living with, so he quickly set up a white sheet, hooking it on a few screws sticking out from the wall and angled the computer so it couldn't see anything but Rhodey and the backdrop. He joined the internet Rhodey had set up at the office for the junkyard and started a video call.

Tony appeared with a brilliant smile. “Hi, honey bunches of oats!”

“Now that’s extreme even for you,” Rhodey said with a grin.

“Lies,” Tony denies, waving his hand. “Happy birthday! Fourteen, sound like fun, love to get in on that, but on the note of birthdays, have you gotten my present yet?”

“Nope,” Rhodey said, amused. “It’ll probably arrive tomorrow, I’ll video call you before I open it up, promise.”

“Good, because I put a lot of thought into this,” Tony informed him. “I want to see your face when you see what I got you. Now, lemme see my baby bots!” Rhodey waved over Butterfingers and U, holding them up for Tony. “Aw! How are my babies doing with Uncle Rhodey?” They squealed and beeped wildly in excitement at seeing Tony. “Oh good, glad to hear positive reviews.”

Rhodey laughed and later, he tore up the remote control car to use the parts for Jason’s tank and Peep’s boat. He kept the flashlight because at least it made the darkness outside his shack bearable when he shuffled across the lot to go to the bathrooms on the premises. First time, he walked out in some slides he got cheap at a thrift store, but when he got back he noticed a small rusty nail sticking out of the side. He wore Tony’s steel toed boots after that.

The next day he gushed over Tony’s gifts; an MIT class ring made specifically for him, a bunch of (foreign and American) candies, three movies of varying quality (one being  _Mars! Attacks_ , another being  _Sharknado_ , and the last being  _Independence Day_ ), a handful of books, some new tools (nice ones, electronic ones, a new, smaller, welder for smaller projects, and so on, and all of it fit in a nice specially designed case), new fancy all natural lotion, a set of three new polos (in bright colors), a nice formal jacket and suit pants with a white shirt and brown belt that looked real classy on Rhodey for “just in case” purposes, and a new phone.

He loved his gifts.

 

* * *

 

Winter came and went. The cold penetrated his shed occasionally, leaving him and five bots shivering (the bots not so much, but they felt cold in a different way that was still apparently unpleasant) under a few blankets as the space heater overworked itself to provide heat.

Christmas wasn’t any more fun than his birthday and the clothes he received melted into what Rhodey already had or was promptly used and discarded. New Years was a little better because Rhodey texted Tony as the Hapskins watched the ball drop. Tony provided sassy comments about the fashion he saw and the anchors keeping tabs on the ball drop, keeping Rhodey warm with amusement as 2013 turned to 2014.

He almost believed that the year was going to be a good one.

He was wrong.

On March 1st, Tony sent him-

_Milliondollerbaby: ugh, going to a weapons demo in Afghanistan w/ dad on the 3rd. I hate these things, but I just know he’s gonna get tipsy/drunk and I’ll have to add to the presentation so he doesn’t fuck it up i’m so tired of his shit_

_Rocketman: he’s a real asshole. please be careful out there, please don’t offend any locals but prank a official if you can manage it_

On March 3rd Rhodey was walking through the living room at eight with a mug of coffee, getting ready for work at the house because he ran out of coffee back at the shed, when the TV caught his attention so fast he spit out his coffee and got whiplash all at once.

Sophie, noticing his rapt attention, turned the volume up for him.

_“-An attack on the convoy transporting twenty US soldiers as well as the Stark family through the Afghan desert was attacked half an hour ago. So far, the reports coming in say that fifteen of the soldiers were reported to be KIA and the remaining five are in serious condition. No report has come in on the Stark family, and the report suggests that the terrorists who attacked the American soldiers took the Starks captive.”_

The mug fell from Rhodey’s limp hand and shattered on the floor, sending coffee sloshing over his socks and the rug nearby.

Sophie responded in panic and loud voices but Rhodey couldn’t hear her. The air had been sucked out of the room, leaving Rhodey strangled in a vacuum. The world had dropped from under Rhodey’s feet and he felt numb and cold and terrified at the same time. It couldn’t be real. The center of the world became the TV and nothing felt real. Not the pain from him stepping on a glass shard when he felt too weak to stand and sat on the coffee table, not Sophie shaking his arm and trying to get his attention, not even the words going through the cotton in his brain-

_“Not you too. Please, god, not you too.”_

 

* * *

 

By the time Rhodey sort of came out of it, he’d been moved to the kitchen and someone, a doctor or a nurse, was actively stitching up his foot, which felt numb. She glanced up when Rhodey instinctively twitched. “Can you hear me now?”

Rhodey nodded.

“Alright. Hi, James. I’m Dr. Madison, an on-call doctor. You stepped on some glass and need a few stitches. I’ve already applied a local anesthetic and done about five stitches. I need to do about six more.”

Rhodey nodded.

“You’re doing a great job, just keep still and I’ll be done soon. The good news is that you only hurt your right foot here so even though you have to stay off this foot for a little over a week, you can use crutches to get around.”

Rhodey nodded again. Dr. Madison finished up her work, wrapped Rhodey’s foot up in bandages, and took her leave after giving him care instructions. Rhodey finally noticed the Hapskins sort of crowed by the door. The last thing Rhodey wanted to deal with was that. Honestly, he was feeling pretty numb and had to process some stuff and he was three seconds from crying his eyes out, so as soon as he got crutches, he legged it out of there and out the door, grabbing his helmet on the way.

He must have been zoning out on the way to the junkyard because he was just suddenly there, limping into his shed. He sat heavily on his cot and stared at a screw on the floor. Within five minutes, he burst into tears and didn’t stop sobbing until he passed out, feeling lonely and scared and worried and anxious to his bones, all his organs twisted up in longing and the painful agony of not knowing if  _his Tony_  was even  _alive_.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey spent three months in a daze, obsessively checking the news and hacking into military databases to find out whatever he could. Falling asleep resulted in mixed up feverish dreams of Tony being dead or tortured and Rhodey being unable to do anything. Each night, as he sat alone in the dark, he texted Tony’s phone, pleading him to come back with burning tears in his eyes and the soul crushing knowledge that he wasn’t going to get a reply back.

Butterfingers started stress baking, which resulted in way too much food for Rhodey to eat alone, and U started obsessively organizing. She got too good at cleaning the shed and rolled out the door to work at the junkyard. Piles of screws, nails, and bolts in specific piles based off length appeared, wires in neat coils likewise and piles of specific parts small enough for her to move.

Rhodey kept at his work, but everything just felt like an automatic function. In a haze, he fixed broken down cars to run again. The boss, Stan Lee, after having them officially checked out, sold the cars for a few thousand each and used to money to fuel employee bonuses and upgrade Rhodey’s shed. It went from a rusty cobbled mess of wood and old tin roofing pieces from the Great Depression to a nice wooden shed with new tools and a slight bit more living space versus workspace. Much better insulated too.

He had space for a nice, large, well lit, desk and workstation, where he kept all his tools and equipment, blueprints and notes to himself tacked to the corkboard there. The desk connected to a sort of counter space where he put all his foodstuffs. The mini fridge, the gas burner, a microwave (found and fixed by Rhodey, of course, because he was one cheap ass bitch now), and coffee machine, a small collection of assorted glassware and eating utensils he bought at thrift stores, so none of them matched. He put in a sink of sorts, really just a basin attached to a water tank, a water pump used to move the water from the refillable tank to the sink and another to collect used water that needed to be emptied. Under this countertop also fix a sort of dresser space where he stored clothes and the like. He got an upgraded bed, a small twin bed fitting against the wall on one side. He could fit his laundry basket under the bed, where the bots didn't stay. They had built up their own little area under the bed they liked, with a small stand of Christmas lights and a blanket nest near an outlet for charging at night. Butter’s Easy Bake was under there too.

Everything was powered by the generator and solar panels he transferred from the other shed. He kept busy to distract himself.

Despite upgrades, Rhodey regularly forgot to eat or sleep, consumed in articles or government coding, actively hacking the Pentagon, subtly manipulating search missions to look and keep looking past what the military considered the point of no return.

The other workers noticed his mess but didn’t comment. As long as he did his job, they were okay with leaving it alone.

Until the truck incident.

Basically, they got the mangled wreck of an enormous truck mashed with some sort of Subaru. They were well and truly twisted together and too big to get into the shredder. Rhodey came over with six batteries for his laser so he could cut it up enough to get into the machine.

But after the first swing, the front of the truck falling off with a clang, something snapped in Rhodey. He came out of a blind destructive rage about thirty minutes, tears streaming down his face in the middle of a pile of hot metal scrap, pipes, and sitting his ass in oil that miraculously wasn’t on fire, as the workers hesitantly crouched by him and one patted his back. In those thirty minutes, he had decimated the mangled mess. He cut it all into pieces the size of an Xbox or smaller while screaming and yelling and kicking shit and cursing to hell and high water. He used all six batteries up before turning to a long pipe and just started beating shit with it.

Apparently, he burnt himself out and just sat in his mass of destruction.

“You okay kid?” Olivia asked carefully, crouching beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

“Not really,” Rhodey managed.

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up, kid. My place is just next to this dump, you can shower off there, or something. My kid’s about your size, you can borrow some clothes.”

It was after his shower that he noticed the painful burns on his hands and lower arms. Red and hot to the touch, some bleeding a bit with a few blisters from the hot metal touching his skin. Rhodey spent a few minutes running his arms under hold water and then slathering antibiotic ointment over them, followed by bandages. They scared a bit, but not as bad as some of the cuts he got at MIT when he went on science binges and lost hours to work only to notice a cut or mysterious bruise later.

Tony’s birthday came and Rhodey, in honor of the date, took the day off to cry some more, watch videos he had of Tony, eat a cupcake Butterfingers made, and hold the presents he got Tony; a pair of dangle earrings with the molecule dopamine in beautiful silver. He knew Tony would love them, after all. He also got a silver ring that was actually a tiny abacus and a stuffed animal platypus, because he also knew Tony would adore it.

The pain in his chest kept its place as a sharp ache, never leaving, never moving, and constantly reminding him of what was lost.

And then…

 _“Reports from a search and rescue party inform us as of now that Antonio “Tony” Stark, who has been missing since early March has been found alive,”_ came from his headphones.  _“Though injured, dehydrated, and suffering from mild malnutrition, the son of billionaire Howard Stark has been cleared to return to the United States via military transport for additional medical care. There are no reports of Howard Stark accompanying the boy, and Tony Stark is reported to have said that his father was killed by the terrorists. The reports do not yet specify how Howard Stark died.”_

Rhodey felt weak at the knees. He lowered himself to the ground in the middle of the junkyard. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Rhodey said as he went down, feeling old and weathered at the crisp age of fourteen. “I’m an old man. Old black man sitting down right here.”

Just trying to breathe through the sudden rush of total and utter relief was a whole process. It was like an elephant stepped off him and he got low blood sugar all at once. He was light headed and his vision was down a wavering grey thing he didn’t want to look into.

He put his hand over his heart, feeling the dog tags underhand, tilted his head up to the sun and closed his eyes and he focused on not crying and hyperventilating. Tony was alive. Tony was hurt, but he was alive and safe, at long last. Rhodey, feeling light headed to the point of slight concern, leaned forward until his helmet fell off and let out a long breath.

“Oh, thank god,” Rhodey managed, putting his hands on his head. “Thank fucking fuck. Tony’s okay. Tony’s safe, Tony’s alive.” Rhodey kept breathing, the headrush getting to him a bit. “I need to lay down, goddammit Tony, don’t fucking scare me like this ever again. I’ll have a fucking stroke and then what the fuck will we do? Die, probably.”

He lay down and felt slightly better. Sweetheart jumped down from the pile of junk to Rhodey’s left and carefully climbed over Rhodey, trying to figure out the problem. She beeped uncertainty and patted his face a bit, very softly.

“I’m fine, just a bit overwhelmed. I’m having a lot of emotions and they’re a bit intense. Fuck, I can’t feel my legs, they’re all jelly and shit. Fuck my life, fuck everything, fucking Tesla Christ.” Rhodey groaned and rolled over. “I need a nap for seventy years, all this shit is just god damn exhausting, fuck.”

Sweetheart soothingly patted him again and beeped a few times.

“Thanks, Sweetie, you’re a little darling.”

 

* * *

 

He constantly checked the news the following week. He read up on the interviews and press releases for days, even the ones he knew were bullshit. Tony’s statements were pretty unsettling in general, to be honest. Seeing his dad get shot in the face right in front of him, being forced to make weapons and using those weapons to escape... it all kept piling up and Rhodey’s worry returned.

The bots were still anxious and kept prodding him for more news, but until Tony managed to call or text, he had nothing to report. Butterfingers stress baked, U stress sorted, Rhodey’s bots didn’t know Tony well, but they tried to be kind and sympathetic to Rhodey and the pair of claw bots. Jason took to helping Butters with the baking he did, Sweetheart helped U straighten up, and Peep often sat with Rhodey or went with him out to work.

Now that most of Rhodey’s stress points were resolved, he kept at building the bots their chosen vehicles. In a week he managed to get Jason’s tank assembled from the scarp and crafted parts he found and designed to fit together. The folding abilities made it about the size of an Xbox when all together (which weighed about seventy pounds, however) and about the size of a laundry basket when up and running. With that, he started at Sweetheart’s aircraft. He was actually busy at work on it when his phone buzzed for the first time in months.

He scrambled to grab it and read the text, on his hands and knees in front of his cot, staring desperately at the screen.

_Milliondollerbaby: I’m wearing your hoodie._

Rhodey felt like someone punched him in the chest and he put his hand over his mouth to prevent any of the pained noises crawling up his throat from escaping, the other bringing the phone to press hard against his chest. God, that statement was… Tony loved his clothes, Rhodey didn't know anybody who cared as much about feeling and looking good in clothes than Tony does. And the first thing Tony wears when he got his clothes back is Rhodey’s hoodie? That made Rhodey feel sad and loved and the longing to hug Tony and kiss his forehead and just  _see him_  was so strong Rhodey nearly got up and… he wasn't sure. Maybe take one of the cars he stress-fixed and drive to wherever Tony is.

With tears in his eyes, he typed his reply.

_Rocketman: I missed you too. So much._

_Milliondollerbaby: love you too, honey lumps_

Rhodey sucked in a gasping breath and wiped his eyes, pushing himself up and sitting heavily on the cot, the phone in hand.

_Rocketman: you okay? heard you were put in a hospital_

_Milliondollerbaby: eh_

_Rocketman: I mean, technically that’s an answer. Shit, tones, i missed you. I was a mess for months, all i wanted to do was go find you myself but i couldn’t just fly around the world to go looking. I kept getting worked up and my mind was coming up with all these horrible senarios but I’m just so fuckign glad you’re alive._

_Rocketman: I’m so fuckign glad. I love you so much, I don’t know what I would do without you in my life, you mean so much to me._

_Milliondollerbaby: me too. I missed you so much. I wanted you so badly, but it would have killed me to have you in those fuckign caves with me._

At the mention of caves, Rhodey is suddenly thrust into the realization that Tony suffered in those three months. He didn't even know all of what happened, just the stories and press releases. Snippets of stories mentioning torture, waterboarding. Tony was drowned in those caves, he was hurt and the utter rage and suffocating sadness at the situation made Rhodey sob. He got ahold of his emotions and took a few measured breaths.

When he opened his eyes again, he read those words again with that pain in his heart and replied.

_Rocketman: I get it, really. But its okay now. We’ve got each other again, right? Just like always. We’re gonna be alright now._

_Milliondollerbaby: youre right. We’ve got each other again. And I have no intention of lettign us get separated again._

_Rocketman: together forever. Till the energy void, right?_

It was a little thing they talked about while in college, the concept of what happened after a person died. They eventually just branched off the concept that no energy is created or destroyed, so life energy was transferred, but as they had no idea precisely where, they just called it the energy void.

_Milliondollerbaby: thats exactly right._

_Rocketman: I missed you so much. drove me crazy to not know that you were safe or even alive. I hacked the pentagon for you. At least three times._

_Milliondollerbaby: Thats my baby. Hey, how are the kids?_

_Rocketman: Butters and u are fine. I’ll tell em ur ok. They missed you too._

_Milliondollerbaby: I’ll skype as soon as I can, i need to see you._

_Rocketman: I need to see you too._

 

* * *

 

There was a tense few hours of staring at his computer before a call actually popped up. Rhodey rushed to answer, and when the cameras did their job and adjusted, Rhodey got his first good look at Tony since he came back home. “Tony,” he said, utterly relieved.

Tony looked so small. He was leaning back in a swivel chair, the room around him bare and blank. Rhodey’s hood was still on Tony, which dwarfed his frame further. “Rhodey,” Tony replied, sounding like all the tension drained out of him. “Hey, buttercup.”

Rhodey smiled at him, suddenly not knowing what to say. All he wanted to do was hug his friend and never let go. He settled for a simple, “Hi.” It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Nothing could ever be enough to say to Tony just how much seeing him again meant.

“It’s so nice to see you again,” Tony said. “There were times I thought- I- it was hard,” he said uncertainly. “I’m sorry, I-” Tony shrunk, shoulders hunching as he looked away.

“Oh, no, you have nothing to be sorry for, this was all just bullshit out of our control,” Rhodey reassured immediately, reaching out because all he wanted to do was take Tony’s face in his hands and have him look up at him again, to assure him that it was okay. “It’s alright, honey. I’ve got you, alright? C’mon, Tones.”

“I’m- I’m okay. It’s just been a hard few… months. I need- I don’t know what I need. I need you, but that’s… not really an option. We’re gonna have to wait on that for a bit.”

“Yeah, we might,” Rhodey admitted. “But I’m still here for you, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like a bit of a mess, honey,” Rhodey said softly.

“That’s an understatement,” Tony joked. “Ugh, I feel like a mess. With everything that happened? My skin needs a serious spa treatment. I have sand in my  _pores_ , honestly!”

Rhodey gave a weak chuckle because Tony had sand in his pores because he was  _trapped in a cave for three months_ , being  _tortured_  and building weapons and then walking through a desert to try to get to civilization,  _hurt_  and  _alone_.

“I’m exhausted,” Tony said and the words carried such weight that Rhodey felt exhausted in response. He just wanted to find a big soft bed and fall asleep with Tony by his side, content and happy.

“That’s fine, honey. You should, I don’t know, probably get some sleep, right?” Rhodey asked.

“Yeah, but I don’t…” Tony shook his head. “I’ll be okay for a bit. How- how are my baby bots?”

Rhodey looked around his shed and motioned for the two bots staring at him. Peep, Jason, and Sweetheart were politely observing from the workstation. “Hey, c’mon, who wants to see daddy?” Rhodey glanced at Tony. “Daddy, right?”

“For now,” Tony said, waving his hand. “I feel like it’s wavering a bit, but daddy works. Honestly, we need to find a good gender neutral term. All the ones on the internet just seem so  _eh_  though.”

Rhodey scooped up the bots and put them on the bed with the computer. Butters and U beeped and waved wildly.

“Aw, there are my baby bots. I missed you guys,” Tony cooed. “I’m okay, thank you for asking Butterfingers. And U, I missed you too, both of you. Uncle Rhodey’s been taking good care of you, huh?”

Butterfingers nodded and beeped some more.

“Oh, yeah, I have Dum-E with me over here. He’s keeping me company. JARVIS too. Here, Dum-E?” Tony picked up the bot and put him on the desk, where the three bots proceeded to beep and chirp and squeal up a storm.

Rhodey noticed a few minutes in how Tony’s head kept dropping and then picking back up. He sighed and cleared his throat a bit. “Tones,” Rhodey said softly. “Get some sleep. Please? For me?”

“You play dirty,” Tony said accusingly, pointing.

“I don’t mind playing dirty if it means you get some rest, honey,” Rhodey murmured.

Tony sighed. After a second, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later, Rhodey. Love you.”

“I love you too. Sweet dreams.”

Tony waved at the bots as well. “Love you too, baby bots. I’ll see you later.” And the video cut off. Rhodey slumped as he sighed, feeling drained. He helped Butters and U off the bed and watched them roll under the workbench again, beeping at each other in a conversation Rhodey could vaguely understand. He could tell that they were worried but happy that they saw Tony and Dum-E again.

He could also tell that they were talking about going to find Tony, to go back to Tony. Butters seems to think it had been too long since they had seen Tony, and U was hesitant agreeing.

“Hey, guys,” Rhodey said, waving them back over. “Do you want to go back to Tony?”

They stopped moving, just watching Rhodey.

“I know, he’s your papa, I’m just your uncle or something, and I know you really miss him. I wouldn’t mind, really. I love you guys, you know that, and if you feel like you want to go back to Tony instead of staying with me, that would be totally fine.”

They glanced at each other and nodded.

Rhodey smiled and kissed the top of both of their claws. “Go think about what you want to bring. You can’t take the drone or oven though, too big. But Tony’ll get you new ones, most likely. I’m gonna get some sleep, you can tell me in the morning, right?”

They nodded and rolled off again.

Honestly, Rhodey could use a nice night of sleep. He just had a very long… three months. He could only imagine what it was like for Tony, but the stress of worrying and that grief and fear he held in his chest for months was a real kicker anyway. Rhodey climbed up on his cot and wrapped himself up in his blanket. He put his phone on full volume and closed his eyes, waiting for his phone to make a noise. Any noise.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Rhodey sees that he got texts last night. Nothing crazy important, but Tony mentioning not sleeping was a bit concerning. He quickly replied.

_Rocketman: nice, kids are assholes, u should still try to sleep when u can, naps are nice, and tones, u know I don’t follow pokemon. What u need is a hug *sends virtual hug*_

_Milliondollerbaby: owo, what’s this?_

Rhodey felt his soul die a little in exasperation.

_Rocketman: stop_

_Milliondollerbaby: LOL, SO RANDOM, rawr XD_

_Rocketman: why._

_Milliondollerbaby: O.O_

_Rocketman: …_

Tony looked at Tony’s bots, who are currently looking over his shoulder at his texts.

_Rocketman: U and butterfingers want to go home to you. I know you gave me them for a reason when I went into the system, but they need you right now, more than I need them. They’ve been anxious wrecks since you went missing and I don’t think it’s getting through that you’re okay._

There was a pause.

_Milliondollerbaby: okay. Thanks Rhodey._

_Rocketman: you’ll get to meet Sweetheart too, she’s heard a lot about you, clearly, and wants to meet you._

_Milliondollerbaby: i look forward to meeting your baby bot. <3 _

So Rhodey cracked his knuckles and got to work finishing Sweetheart’s aircraft.

He was over halfway done, and everything was working perfectly so far, so banging it all out worked better than he expected. He used the drone for extra parts because the bots couldn't bring that all the way to where Tony was living, and Rhodey is fairly sure Tony will make U another. After a few test flights, and with energy levels staying steady from the combined forces of three power cells of his lasers and solar panels attached to both wings, Rhodey cleared Sweetheart for flights.

Butters was taking one of his favorite cookbooks, a jar of sprinkles, and the spatula Rhodey made specifically for his claw hand, all put in a small box just for him. U was just taking a few pretty pieces of scrap she found when sorting the junkyard. Rhodey felt a bit bad dismantling the drone, but he needed the parts and she would get another. Probably a better one.

Rhodey crouched near her as she counted her bits and bobs.

“Hey,” he murmured, getting her attention. “Do you mind taking Tony some things for me?” She looked at him expectantly and Rhodey retrieved the stuffed animal, the ring, and the earrings. “These were Tony’s birthday presents.”

She squealed at him.

“Don’t call me cute, I cried on these,” he said, mock scolding.

She clearly laughed at him and Rhodey rolled his eyes as he put them in a small cardboard box and tapped it up, loading it in as well.

Peep and Jason were giving a nice heartfelt goodbye. Sweetheart and U were discussing the flight, Rhodey thought, Jason and Butters were… arguing? Or something. And Peep was making lows shrill squeaks and beeps and hugging both bots. Rhodey hugged them when his turn came around. “You two stay safe, okay? I’ll miss you.”

They beeped and hugged him a bit harder. Eventually, they all got their hugs out and Peep loaded the two bots, their charging station, and their belongings into the storage part of small aircraft.

Rhodey handed Peep a tiny phone with GPS and basic phone capabilities. “No texting and flying,” he reminds them. Peep salutes and then they’re down the runway and off into the distance. Rhodey watched the dot vanish and then reluctantly went to work.

A little later he has a brief, concerning, conversation with his friend.

_Milliondollerbaby: hey i think tubs are a no for me rn_

_Rocketman: ? you okay?_

_Milliondollerbaby: yeah, i just get this weird feeling, I don’t like it_

_Rocketman: that sucks, you got it tho, right?_

_Milliondollerbaby: I’ll figure it out._

_Rocketman: cool, good. Im here for you tho if u need me_

_Milliondollerbaby: thx baby <3 _

But the thing about Tony being back is this: it didn't change a single goddamn thing.

Sure, Rhodey is getting texts again, and there's nothing better than knowing that Tony is safe and can contact him, but Rhodey is still going to be alternating between the house and his shed in the junkyard, still working with the rest of the crew to haul junk and fix stuff, and he was  still going to be busy raising a handful of robots as well as working on his own projects. Since Sweethearts aircraft and Jason’s tank were done, he was working on Peep’s submarine, so he had that going for him too.

He still has to repair things at the house, without anybody asking where he was or how he was doing or even anything about Tony, who they know he was friends with especially after his break from reality in the living room. In fact, they hardly even realized he wasn’t there. Because the claw bots weren’t with him anymore, and Sweetheart wasn’t going to be until later that night, he went to the house to do some laundry and was intercepted with refrigerator repairs.

To prove his point about nobody caring, Christian was legitimately surprised to see him because he assumed that Rhodey had gotten moved. Arms deep in the refrigerator, Rhodey give him a look. “Nope, I’ve been here, man.”

“It's just- your bed is always empty and stuff, hadn’t seen you or anything, so most of us assumed…”

“I have a shed at the junkyard,” Rhodey said into the refrigerator, not looking up. “It’s… quieter.”

“Oh, well cool then, I guess. Hey, if you get a chance, could you take a look at the remote to the TV? Noah threw it at the wall when Jayden stole his jersey and spilled some soda on it, so…”

Rhodey closes his eyes and stops working for a second. He lets out a quick frustrated breath, gritting his teeth. He lets out another and continues working. “Sure.” In all honesty, he was five seconds from decking the asshole.  _‘I gotta calm down, I almost hit him,’_  filters across his mind and Rhodey tells himself to stop Jason from playing vine compilations.

His phone buzzed suddenly and he looked at his messages, stopping his repairs for the moment.

_Milliondollerbaby: your baby girl is so sweet! And I love the presents, I’m already wearing the earrings. I really need to get a haircut so they get shown off better. They’re beautiful. And the ring? Adorable, and useful!_

_Milliondollerbaby: and I really really like the platypus stuffed animal. It makes me think of you._

Like that, all of Rhodey’s anger evaporated into calmness and fondness. A smile immediately plastered itself to Rhodey’s face as he thought of Tony hugging that stuffed animal in one arm while texting with his free hand, silver earrings in his ears and ring on his finger.

_Rocketman: (heart emoji) (blushing face emoji) They were supposed to be your b-day presents, but I’m glad you got them now._

After his laundry was done, and he sort of had an awkward conversation with the foster parents about being busy at work, and lying about some broken machinery that needed fixing back at the junkyard, he made his escape. Later, around dinner time, which was instant ramen he made in his microwave Sweetheart landed in the circle of lights Rhodey had set up. She came in through the small hatch, sort of like a doggy door, Rhodey had put in the shed. He smiled brightly at her as she climbed up, signing ‘hi.’

“Hey, Sweetheart. You have fun with Tony? All good?”

She nodded firmly and signed that Tony was nice and kind and pretty.

“That he is,” Rhodey agreed. “Now go say hi to Jason and Peep, they’re watching Parks and Rec and I know how much you love that show.”

She beeped enthusiastically and hopped down.

 

* * *

 

The next day, when he was working on another car for Mr. Lee, he got a selfie from Tony, who had clearly just gotten a haircut. He was holding the platypus and the earrings and ring were visible. He looked amazing, if tired, and after Rhodey set it as his phone background, he texted back.

_Rocketman: (heart emoji) (heart eyes emoji) (thumbs up emoji) (OK hand emoji) That is some good, cute shit right there! Damn, you looking fine and adorable!_

Tony didn’t text back, but Rhodey knew his friend was happy with the reply anyway.

Rhodey didn’t hear from Tony for a few days after that, but that was okay. In fact, that was  _normal,_ like how Tony and Rhodey used to be, talking maybe once a week, short messages or talking about projects, sometimes more. It was nice, casual, easy, but after a few days Rhodey felt himself compulsively texting a check up, Tony replied of course, which settled Rhodey’s nerves, but it didn’t turn into a conversation.

He managed to finish the submarine for Peep and watched them take it for a test drive in a local park, a large man-made pond housing the perfect conditions. They loved it and have two thumbs up when they surfaced again. Rhodey replaced with the same motion and Peep signed that they wanted to do another go round before they went home.

About a week or so after Tony sent the selfie, Rhodey got a text late in the day. He was relaxing in his shed, watching a movie as his bots charged and slept, so he was kinda expecting a science question or something nice, but what he saw made him raise an eyebrow.

_Milliondollerbaby: Hey, Rhodey._

Okay, odd. Rhodey responded with teasing, of course, because Tony reacted best to it.

_Rocketman: oh shit you pulled out your grammar abilities what did you do_

_Milliondollerbaby: ha ha, very funny, fyi i didn’t do anything, i just wanted to talk to u about something_

_Rocketman: oh, okay, shoot_

_Milliondollerbaby: ok, so, imma be honest, in afghanistan, i got my chest fucked up petty bad._

_Milliondollerbaby: pretty*_

Rhodey frowned. He knew Tony had been injured, he was in a hospital, but he looked fine when they skyped so what could the problem be?

_Rocketman: shit, what? U okay? You were hurt? I mean, i saw the news and u were in the hospital but I though that was mostly observation and stuff tony waht happened_

_Millondollerbaby: kinda, but not only. u remember the arc reactor?_

_Rocketman: yeah, thing is fukin huge and green energy, gotta love it, i kinda wished i had gotten to study it more but ur dad was like ‘you shall not pass!’ so i didn’t get to and stane agreed and gave me tht look? U know, The Look?_

_Milliondollerbaby: yah, i remeber it. But anyway, the arc, i got one in my chest, a lil one, it’s keeping shrapnel from spreading my heart to ribbon and is kinda a pacemaker too_

Rhodey stared at the text and sat up, confused and rereading the message. Tony did what? Wait, what?  _What?_

_Rocketman: what. Tony waht the tesla fuckign what_

_Milliondollerbaby: stand by for pics_

_Milliondollerbaby: (Tony’s chest, the shining arc-reactor in the center of a mess of scars. It looks slightly like a burn wound around the center, but there are precise scars over his ribs and a confetti burst around that.)_

_Milliondollerbaby: and here’s the inside. Beware, it’s gross._

_Milliondollerbaby: (Tony’s chest, a hand holding the arc-reactor just outside it, a small clump of wires vanishing into a dimly lit hole in the center of Tony’s chest.)_

_Milliondollerbaby: midn the plasma discharge, but so yah_

Rhodey wasn’t sure what his face was doing. It wasn’t anything good. He knew it must be some twisted mess of horrified, fascinated, repulsed, concerned, anxious, and bewildered. The scars, the slick and clearly sticky looking discharge in the mechanism, the fact that the device was surgically implanted into Tony’s chest, about four inches deep, the story behind it, all of it just made Rhodey feel sick and concerned.

_Rocketman: What the hell._

_Milliondollerbaby: ya, same._

_Rocketman: are you okay? I can prob hack an airline and hide in a jet to get to where the fuck you are and hitch a ride somehow._

_Milliondollerbaby: nah, i’m p cool. I just wanted you to know b/c I had to tell these fosters about it and it was so awkward because i kinda told them that only 3 ppl know how it works and 2 were ded_

_Milliondollerbaby: but then i added that you prob knew how it worked but u didn’t see it installed or built_

_Rocketman: damn, tones_

_Rocketman: thats fuckin hardcore af_

_Rocketman: can u send me specs so i can look over em and tell how it works?_

Frankly, Rhodey needed those specs yesterday. Tony had this thing in his chest, Tony needed this thing to  _survive_. Rhodey needed to know that this thing was safe, secure, and reliable so his friend didn’t just up and fucking die.

_Milliondollerbaby: ya, i’ll get J to email u_

_Rocketman: (thumbs up emoji) I’m glad you have jarvis, mostly b/c u get sad when ur alone (J is like, idk, an uncle to u or something)_

_Rocketman: does that make you the gay cousin_

_Milliondollerbaby: haha, funny_

_Rocketman: but for all seriousness, i would totes cross the state if u needed me, just say the word. These people are eh anyway. I think i’ll be moving houses soon too, so bleh_

_Milliondollerbaby: bleh?_

_Rocketman: these ppl are the kind that put ur clothes in a garbage bag when u leave_

_Milliondollerbaby: ew, ur right_

_Rocketman: but they dd get me a cake for my 14th brthday, so that was cool i guess_

_Milliondollerbaby: ...._

_Milliondollerbaby: on my birthday i was in a cave so_

_Milliondollerbaby: u win._

Abruptly, anger sparked in Rhodey’s chest. Burning fury and injustice and all that pent up aggression from being used for his smarts and skills, at Justin from using him like that, from this foster family for not caring.

_Rocketman: this fucking sucks_

_Milliondollerbaby: honey?_

_Rocketman: the cake sucked. The day sucked. The bar has litterly never been fuckign lower. I got a cake on my birthday, whoopdefuckign do that’s what’s supposed to happen. I’m supposed to have a party, have a cake, have my parents, have you, and get presents. I wasn’t supposed to be orphaned and used and passed around like a bad penny_

_Rocketman: you were supposed to have a party, your dad, even if he was an utter cock all the time and never appreciated you like i do, you were supposed to have me and we shouldn't be celebrating such trivial bullshit. We wanted to go to that water park and have an awesome day out_

_Rocketman: now you get panic attacks from water, so that idea is down the shit tube forever and thats fine but its not fair to you!_

_Rocketman: i miss them so fuckign bad, i missed you so fuckign bad. The cake made that so much worse. They forgot i couln’t have lactose so I fed my slice to the dog while they weren’t lookign because i didn’t want to ruin everything. They beat up my bot and i didn’t do anythign because i didn’t want them to claim my bots were the next Hal and now they’re scared of other people and freeze when ppl are around_

_Rocketman: but i got a fuckign cake didn’t i. I got my fuckign cake on my birthday_

Rhodey pressed the phone into his forehead hard, just breathing. He was surprised when the phone rang, quickly silence when Rhodey rushed to answer, almost dropping it in his rush.

“Tones,” Rhodey said anxiously, standing and glancing at his sleeping bots. He carefully opened the door and slipped outside, where it was cold and windy, like a storm was approaching. He could see a vague bright spot in the clouds, the moon presumably, but not much else.

“You’re right,” Tony choked out. “It’s all bullshit. You got your cake, I got my cave and everything is just fucked, isn’t it? They kicked Jason, your baby bot, so hard his chest cracked, and they’ll put your stuff in a trash can bag like you’re not my entire world and I miss you so much. I just want you here. That’s how we planned it, together forever, but we’re not, and we can’t be and that sucks. And I’m so scared of going to sleep because when I look around I’m in the desert and Yinsen is dead or I’m looking down the barrel of a gun and daring them to shoot! I remember feeling ready for it because I knew I wasn’t getting out of those caves alive. But now I am! And I remember accepting that! And it scares me! I can remember seeing Howard's face, my dad’s face, get shot off in front of me, all that blood and b-bone.” Tony stuttered off and pushed the memory away. “It’s not fair! What did we do?”

“That’s just it,” Rhodey manages. “Nothing. Everything’s fucked and it’s not our fault, we didn’t do anything but it sucks anyway. I miss them so bad. I just want my dad, I want my mom. I want you.”

“It hurts, Rhodey. My chest, my heart, my lungs, my head. I just want everything to be normal again.”

“It’s never going to be. Isn’t that the fucking cherry on top,” Rhodey said bitterly.

“Yeah,” Tony said quietly. “I want to go home. I don’t belong here. Ted hates me, Ken is trying to be my dad, Britney is hovering like a drone. I want people, I want people that understand like you do, but they’re doing it wrong and judging my stuff and my bots and everything and it’s like I’m something different.”

“I know,” Rhodey agreed. “I just want to grow up so I can leave. I want to have sleepovers with you and watch movies and argue about science and eat food I can eat and invent and talk with you face to face, not just over a phone or a screen. I want my bots to be safe and happy.”

“I want us to be safe and happy,” Tony said quietly. “I’m not happy here. You make me happy. Oh, god, that’s so gay.”

A bit of laughter bubbles up from the sadness and anger. “Yeah. No homo though,” Rhodey teases.

Tony snickers a bit. “Yeah,” he sighed. “But we were made for each other. We were made to be best friends, platonic partners, and it hurts to be away from you. And it hurts that you’re not safe or happy.”

“Same here,” Rhodey admits. “But we’ve got to stay strong, right? That’s what they say in the movies. We’ll be eighteen eventually and we can leave this shit all behind.”

“I want to leave it now. I don’t want more of this. I don’t want to keep feeling misplaced and secondary.”

“Yeah.” There was a beat of silence. “It all sucks, but we’re still here, aren’t we? All this shit, and we’re still okay. We have each other, and our bots, and JARVIS. That’s a good start,” Rhodey said.

“We’re smart, we can figure out anything,” Tony agreed.

Rhodey didn’t know what to say after that, but as he tried to think of something else to say, but words weren’t right for this. Almost abruptly, a fond memory hit him and Rhodey started humming, nervously at first, but gaining security as Tony said nothing.  _“If you ever find yourself stuck in the middle of the sea~ I'll sail the world~ to find you,_ ” Rhodey sang.

 _“If you ever find yourself lost in the dark and you can't see~ I'll be the light~ to guide you,”_  Tony replied softly, then laughed a bit. “Guess it’s really true now, you wouldn’t believe how bright the arc is.” Rhodey let out a huff of amusement.

They started the chorus together, and Rhodey felt himself relax a bit.  _“Find out what we're made of~ when we are called to help our friends in need~. You can count on me like one, two, three, I'll be there. And I know when I need it I can count on you like four, three, two, you'll be there. 'Cause that's what friends are supposed to do, oh yeah~.”_

 _“If you're tossin' and you're turnin'~ and you just can't fall asleep~ I'll sing a song beside you,”_ Rhodey tells him, meaning it and remembering how Tony sent his piano pieces to help him sleep.

 _“And if you ever forget how much you really mean to me~ every day I will remind you,”_ Tony replied.

_“Find out what we're made of~ when we are called to help our friends in need~. You can count on me like one, two, three, I'll be there. And I know when I need it I can count on you like four, three, two, you'll be there. 'Cause that's what friends are supposed to do, oh yeah~._

_“You'll always have my shoulder when you cry. I'll never let go, never say goodbye~. You know you can count on me like one, two, three, I'll be there. And I know when I need it I can count on you like four, three, two, you'll be there. 'Cause that's what friends are supposed to do, oh yeah~._

_“You can count on me 'cause I can count on you,”_  they finish.

“I missed that song,” Tony said.

“I missed you,” Rhodey said earnestly and shivers. “Brr! I need to go inside soon. It’s stormy out right now. I, uh, I’ve been living in a shed at the junkyard, had to leave so I don’t wake up my bots.”

“I locked myself in my room.”

“What a pair we are.”

“We’re perfect,” Tony tells him.

“True. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You need to sleep too. And it’s apparently stormy where you are.” Tony paused. “How are your seventy polo shirts?”

Rhodey huffed. “I’ll never stop getting shit for that, will I?”

“Never.”

For some reason, ‘never’ sounded more like ‘forever’ and it warmed Rhodey’s soul. When he slipped back into the shed, he immediately got on his computer and found the emails JARVIS sent. He spent a few hours studying Tony’s blueprints and familiarizing himself on how it worked. After that, he opened the second message which was just… it was readouts that kept changing every so slightly.

Output numbers first, linked to Tony’s arc-reactor, but then-- pulse rate, body temperature, blood pressure, respiration rate, all life feeds. Watching the numbers easily move, almost sluggishly, was oddly calming. He didn’t know how long he was content to just watch them until they jumped and settled again, snapping him out of it.

He blinked and glanced around his shed, spotting a few piles of scrap material and getting a brilliant idea. In under an hour he had constructed a watch. He fiddled with the coding for a bit until it could hold all the features he wanted; a watch operating on atomic clock time, an app linked to Tony’s vitals, a functioning phone, and basic internet access. As he worked on that, he had another idea and added in a few things so that his own vitals could be transmitted from the watch. When he added that feature on, he constructed a second watch and, working carefully, combined a speaker and microphone he could put in his MIT ring. He rummaged around his scrap metal and took the time to make Tony another ring, a simple metal band, but engraved with ‘The First Duty of Love is to Listen.” He put the same speaker tech into it but added a small switch to activate and deactivate it.

It wasn’t difficult, really, but making all the pieces fit took a bit of time, as did getting the materials. When he stumbled outside, the sun was brightly shining and five days had passed or something.

Ashley, the newest hire on the lot, was rummaging through some scrap nearby and gave him a look. “Boy, if you do not find a shower soon I’ll have to put you with all this trash based off smell alone. I can see those stink lines from here. And where the hell have you been?”

“Uh, just busy in my shed, I guess,” Rhodey said. “I’ll- y’know, I’m gonna go and get cleaned up.”

Much later, after he had bathed, eaten, and fixed himself up, he put the watch and ring in an envelope and sent it to Tony’s address.

 

* * *

 

Two days of work later, in which Rhodey cut up cars, fixed the metal shredder twice, and repaired two cars, he heard something from his hand. He only caught the end of it, quick to bring it up to his ear. “-it means a lot of be able to speak to you like this.”

Rhodey was too stunned to reply immediately, but he gathered himself and did so. “It means to world to me,” he said. “If you ever need me, just turn on the ring. I’ve got it linked to my MIT ring.”

“Thank you,” Tony said softly.

“It wasn’t a problem at all.”

 

* * *

 

Time went on and Rhodey noticed things in what Tony texted him. The Fourth of July thing was a little striking, made him start thinking about PTSD as something that Tony quite likely had now, thinking of what the fuck Afghanistan must have been like for him, thinking about what Tony experienced. One time he was sleeping when his ring, the rings they had connected to each other, the communications, woke him up from his slumber in his shed. He sort of drifted to consciousness at a slight noise but was already drifting away when the noise came again.

“-odey.” The voice sounds desperate, choked and Rhodey blinked his sleep swollen eyes open.

Rhodey shifted with a groan, bringing the ring up to his ear. “Tony? That you, honey? What’s up?” Rhodey asked groggily.

“I had- I feel so alone, please, just… I-” Tony makes a choked noise and Rhodey sat up, focusing on the noise, the way it sounded. “I miss him so much.”

“Who? Your dad?” Rhodey asked, confused and concerned.

“No. Yinsen. He saved my life, and he died for me, in those caves, and I miss him.”

Realization hit and Rhodey leaned against the wall. “You mentioned him, before. Tones, I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Rhodey tried to figure out what to say, what he wanted said to him when his own parents died. “I know exactly how you feel though, you know? It hurts so much, doesn’t it? You have to- have to remember how they loved you. Right? Yinsen must have loved you a whole lot to mean that much to you too.”

“I wanted him to escape with me,” Tony said, and his voice sounded mournful, a little angry and confused. “But he ran out to buy me time and he was shot for it. He deserved better.”

“Yeah. That’s how it is,” Rhodey agreed with a sigh. “The people we lose always deserve better. But we can't change what happened, so we have to keep on and make life mean something for us for their sake, wherever they are now.”

“I’m trying, but it just  _hurts_.”

“And it will always hurt,” Rhodey said, because it does, he misses his parents every day, he wanted to go home, but that’s not an option anymore. He knew that, and it hurts. He wanted to see them again, and he knew that that's what Tony is feeling right now. But he needed reassurance too. “But we have each other, forever. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

“Thanks, Rhodey.” Tony sounds glad to have the reassurance, and Rhodey wishes that Tony would realize that it was impossible for Rhodey to not be there for him, heaven and earth couldn't stop Rhodey from doing everything he could for Tony. “I’m here for you too. We’re- we’re gonna always be together, right?”

“Without a shadow of a doubt,” Rhodey agrees.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey keeps track of Tony’s vitals. It’s just a thing. Occasionally, he’ll glance at his watch to see how Tony’s doing and it’s all well and good. Sometime after their late night conversation, when he was working on some of the programming aspects of his job, fixing the main offices’ computers, he checks his watch and it took a minute to register what’s wrong.

These vitals… are wack. Heart rate is increased, respiration rate is up, arc-reactor energy use has increased. What the fuck is happening?

Rhodey shoots up out of the seat, catching the attention of Jada, who had been keeping him company as he worked.’ “You good?” she asked.

“Fine, I’ll finish tomorrow,” Rhodey replied, distracted, and leaves after grabbing his stuff.

He ran through the dark junkyard at full speed, yanking open his unlocked door and locking it behind him. He grabs his computer, opens it up while grabbing a plug that transfers information from his watch to his computer, working on validating his readouts before working his way to tracking the location of Tony.

He pulls a map up and lets the data from the rapidly changing coordinates he got reflect into that. It tells him that Tony is in Afghanistan, going at incredible speeds. He was supersonic. Which makes… no sense, considering the location, not unless Tony was on a military jet and Rhodey knew for a fact that he isn’t.

But Rhodey does know that that is a legal no-fly zone, he heard his parents talk, he was hacking military defense systems when he was trying to find Tony, he knew some stuff, if not a lot. So he quickly hacks into the air force military defense system by routing through the backdoor access point he put in the Pentagon when he was trying to locate Tony (that they still hadn’t noticed after all these months? Who do they even have working there? Kittens chasing laser pointers across keyboards?) and he got an answer.

There’s an emergency that they’re trying to respond to involving a small aerial vehicle in the no-fly zone that they can’t get in contact with, one that they’re clear to engage.

Rhodey pulls up the video feed from the jets and the audio from both the fighter jets and control.

As he listens, he checks the vitals again, comparing everything that’s happening. After a brief scuffle with some flares, the bogey deploys flaps, based off the vague flash of an image that appears on the screens. Respiration briefly drops and heart rate spikes.

_“Holy-!”_

_“That thing just jumped off the radar, sir!”_

_“The sat visual has been lost.”_

_“No way that's a UAV.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“I can't see anything.”_

_“Whatever it was, it just bought the farm.”_

_“I think bogey's been handled, sir.”_

Except that it hadn’t, because Rhodey has a nice set of vitals on his watch. A set of vitals that, though glad are in reasonable limits, he is very mad at. He tears his eyes away from arc-reactor output and focuses on the screen and the voices in his ears.

_“Mark your position and return to base.”_

_“Roger that, Ballroom.”_

_“Wait, on your belly! It looks like a... man!”_  Rhodey can see that, and he can see a very familiar ass in tight spandex looking material and he glares at that ass because he fucking knew Tony’s ass, and now he has confirmation of what he suspected.  _“Shake him off! Roll! Roll!”_

Rhodey watched the spin and jumped when Tony went flying right through the wing of a jet before he can correct.

“Fuck!” he shouted and jumped for his watch, relieved when he sees a heartbeat. That kind of force should have killed Tony! Going supersonic speeds through the wing of a jet should have at least broken his back, but everything he sees said that Tony was fine.

_“I'm hit! I'm hit!”_

_“It's confirmed! He has been hit!_

_“Punch out! Punch out! Whiplash One down!”_

_“Whiplash Two, do you see a chute?”_

_“Negative! No chute, no chute!”_

“Oh, Tony come on,” Rhodey said, nerves lighting up as he listens.

_“My chute's jammed!”_

_“Sir, I've got a visual on the bogey.”_

_“Whiplash Two, re-engage. If you get a clear shot, you take it.”_

There’s a tense silence, and Rhodey watched the re-engaged jet chase after Tony as he dove for the man without his chute. It didn't look good, but it seems like Tony can make it, he can save the guy. At last he reaches the pilot and green nylon blooms outward as the parachute is deployed, momentarily blocking the view as Tony darts away.

_“Good chute! Good chute!”_

The jet is forced to reconfigure to even attempt to chase after Tony, but by then he was long gone.

Rhodey leans back in his chair, blowing out a breath and running his fingers through his hair, feeling more stressed than Tony has ever made him in his whole life.

“Oh my fucking god, what the fuck did you get yourself into?” Rhodey asked the air around him. He fumbles for his phone and called Tony immediately.

“Hello?” Tony said after it picks up.

“Tony,” Rhodey said, controlling his temper. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Uh… driving,” Tony lied.

“Okay, let’s rehash,” Rhodey said tightly. “About twenty minutes ago, my watch went nuts with your vitals, spiking all over the place after over a month of regular activity. I track your location via the connection and find that you’re in the middle of fucking Afghanistan, going supersonic speeds in a legal no-fly zone. Next, I hack into the military defense systems and find there’s something going on and I watch a bit of interesting footage of a man in a red and gold suit clinging to the stomach of an F-22.”

“Um,” Tony said, sounding nervous. “What’s this got to do with me?”

“ _I RECOGNIZE YOUR ASS IN SPANDEX, TONY, DON’T FUCKING PLAY STUPID, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!?_ ” Rhodey shouted at him, standing up and throwing his arms wide.  _“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, ARE YOU FUCKING MENTAL?!”_

Tony started laughing and Rhodey just felt even more pissed at that response.

 _“_ NO! WHAT THE FUCK!  _WHAT THE FUCK?!”_ Rhodey yelled.

“Rhodey, baby, calm down, I was going to tell you when I got back home, I swear.” Tony interrupted. “Listen, listen to me, okay?”

Rhodey took a few breaths, controlling himself again. “Okay,” Rhodey gritted out. “What the fuck?”

“So, um. It’s not in the paps,” Tony started. “But the real way I got out of those caves was with a suit like this. The weapon story was bullshit, made it up so nobody knew about the suit. I made it out of cobbled metal and scrap parts, but it got me out and it was built to make those bastards pay. I caused a fuck ton of chaos on my way out, I made those assholes suffer for killing Howard, for killing Yinsen, for thinking they could order me around and torture me. They’ve been using Stark weapons to kill civilians for Tesla knows how long and as I trekked through the desert, I swore to myself that I’d fix my mistakes, my dad’s mistakes. I don’t want a legacy of blood. I don’t want a company that produces weapons for profit on foreign soil instead of the defense of American soldiers. I’m  _done_ with war profiteering, so I built a new suit to put a stop to it all. And I’m going to burn the Ten Rings from the inside.”

Rhodey felt shock settle into his body, and the danger drains away at Tony’s explanation. He had a hell of a reason, and a hell of a story, and the tone of his voice was so… vindictive, serious, certain of his actions and response.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhodey murmured, putting his head in his free hand. “This is insane. This is literally crazy.”

But… is it though? Tony has a damn good point. Tony has a damn good reason, and he has a damn good response system to the situation.

“That brings me to my next question,” Tony started uneasily. “Will you join me? I already built you a suit. I’m waiting to ship it out, just say the word. I want you by my side, I want to make the world a better place with you. All I need it for you to agree. Please, Rhodey, we can do this.”

Rhodey cannot deal with this right now. This is mental. “This is fucking insane. This is- what even. Jesus,  _a whole suit_. To fight terrorists in the Middle East?” Rhodey throws his hand up again, trying to see how exactly Tony plans for this to all come together.

Tony flustered for a moment. “Yinsen was- Yinsen was more of a father to me than Howard and they killed him. They killed his family and he gave his life to save me. He died in my arms, Rhodey, with bullets in his chest and bleeding out. There are countless stories like his own and I hate that so much it hurts my soul. I hate that people are losing family to people with my weapons, I hate that this is happening because of my stupid fucking company. I want it to end and I’ll do it one way or another.”

Rhodey leaned back against the wall, staring off into space as he thought about this. He… he felt too connected to this. His family killed by these terrorists, he thought as he grabs the dog tags on his sternum, pulling the chain tight so it bites into his neck. Tony was captured by these terrorists. Rhodey has too many reasons to hate the Ten Rings, so is this actually a good idea?

“Platypus,” Tony said and his voice was desperate. “Please. You don't have to agree, but say something, please.”

Rhodey deflated. “I- fuck, I miss my parents so much. It was terrorist like the Ten Rings that took them from me. I want to make them pay for what they did every day of my life, but this scares the shit out of me Tones! How do I know we won’t die? How do I know that this isn’t a suicide mission?”

That’s the real kicker. How? How do they know? Rhodey didn't want to die, Rhodey didn't want Tony to die, he didn't want that threat of getting shot make him fumble or afraid to go through with this.

“I got shot by a tank and survived,” Tony offered. “I took out that F-22 with my ass.”

Rhoey sputtered and barked a laugh, because yeah, that was true. “Yeah, I saw,” he said. “This is fucking nuts. This is…” Rhodey took a second to gather himself. “I can avenge my parents this way. Better than joining up. I can hit them where it hurts most without bureaucracy or losing lives. This- Tony. Okay. Okay. I’m in. But we have to be a team on this. I’m no sidekick.”

“Never. You’re my partner. I swear,” Tony promised.

“We’re gonna kick ass,” Rhodey agreed, feeling a bit dizzy. “This is insane.”

“Well, I’m Stark Raving Mad, which makes you Off His Rocker Rhodey. We’ll be fucking nuts together. I’ll ship the suit today and talk to you later, okay? We’ve got plans, Rhodey. And we're gonna do great things as partner's, right?”

“Yeah,” Rhodey said fondly.

“...Hey, Rhodey,” Tony said suddenly.

“What?”

“WHERE’S MY SUPAH SUIT?!” Tony shouted over the call, which made Rhodey crack up, just from the way he said it.  _“Where? Is? My? Super? Suit?!”_

When they hang up, Rhodey lays on his back in bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about a suit of armor with his name on it, what he’ll do with it, what he'll do with Tony. He has to consider what it means or he won’t be prepared for what he’ll have to do, what he’ll see, how he’ll react.

Rhodey rubs his face. He should try to get some sleep.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Rhodey went to the house to get a package. Sophie had called him to say it had come and told him to get it sooner rather than later. She said it was heavy too, so he dug up a rusty yet usable wagon and walked back to the house, trying to remember the last time he spent the night there.

Half of the boys still thought he had been moved, and Rhodey again confirmed that he just kind of lived at the junkyard, he liked it there, and loaded the box, which was in fact rather heavy, into the wagon before commencing with an awkward conversation with the others. Most of the boys just sort of left, but Zeus stayed as Theodore stood up on the porch, hands on his hips as he looked at Rhodey.

Theodore bit his lip. “So. You just live there permanently, or something, now is it?”

“Yes,” Rhodey agreed. “I like it. I- I like having my own space.”

“You have your own space here,” Theodore tried.

“No, I don’t,” Rhodey disagreed.

Theodore sighed and looked down at his feet, then away from Rhodey all together before shifting and looking back at him. “I- I’m sorry you don’t like it here. Wish… Wish it was… better, I suppose.”

It wasn’t really an apology. “It’s fine,” Rhodey said stiffly. “This suits me fine.”

Zeus grimaced and cracked his knuckles before playing with his thumbs. “You know you don’t have to fix things, right?” he blurted suddenly in the passing silence, and looked down when Theodore shoots him a confused look.

“Huh?”

“He… he looked upset. Every time we asked him to fix something. We… didn’t you notice? That he got upset when you asked him to do something?” Zeus asked, now seeming a little desperate, desperate to confirm that his guardian was the good man and good father he always was to the rest of them. “You always notice when Christian is nervous about a game. Or when Hunter loses a match and tries not to seem upset, you notice. And you ask him about it and you help him feel better. And when I need help and don’t know how to ask for it you notice and you know what to say to help. It… it was the same for him, wasn’t it? You noticed it, right? You tried to figure out what made him upset, didn’t you?”

Rhodey forced himself not to just leave right then. He planted his feet and, not denying a word, kept his head up as Theodore looked more and more lost in the conversation.

“James?” Theodore asked. “Is that true?”

Rhodey met his eye. “Yes,” he confirmed.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Rhodey replied calmly. “Why didn’t I say anything? Why was I upset?”

“Yes, I- you...” Theodore trailed off.

Rhodey let out a breath. “My last foster family used me for my intellect, they only wanted my designs, my expertise in robotics and engineering, and it left a bad impression. When I came here, I didn’t notice you were doing the same thing until I realized you had never spoken to me about anything other than what you needed me to fix. I stopped doing projects because it wasn’t my job. I didn't need to do anything for you or the others. That’s not what a family is, even a foster family. It’s not making one person do everything while the rest benefit. Me living here wasn't supposed to be some sort of  _Cinderella bullshit_ ,” Rhodey snapped, and he hadn’t realized just how mad he was about it until he couldn’t stop his mouth from running.

“ _I_ wasn’t supposed to be slaving away everyday fixing or upkeeping every computer, every tablet, every remote, and every phone. I wasn’t supposed to be the person fixing the washing machine, dishwasher, internet router, TV, gaming station, car, motorcycle, microwave, toaster, or what the fuck have you every time you broke one, making sure you were all happy while  _you_  loved the rest of them and not me just because they’re like  _you_ ! Because they love sports and they’re rowdy and friendly and win medals and trophies! Meanwhile here I am, the MIT graduate with several diplomas fixing your electronics pretty much daily, but you still forgot that I’m lactose intolerant and got me a birthday cake chocked full of it; butter, milk, frosting, and the three cheese pizza! That was my  _birthday_  and I was  _miserable_!

“I realized what was happening and I stopped, okay? And then you’d come around and ask me to fix something, and when I said no, you’d try to guilt me into it by saying I never contribute and getting mad at  _me_ because I wouldn’t fix  _your_  problem! And it made me feel like  _shit_  to know that all you ever wanted from me was someone to fix your shit!  _That’s_  why I never said anything, because not even _you_  realized that you were being shitty people and you never took no for an answer. As soon as I stopped doing things for you, you all forgot about me, which just confirmed it! Most of those jocks thought I had gotten moved before I came to get this package, and I’ve come back  _multiple times_  to the same reaction! Apparently, the only person who ever fucking noticed me was  _Zeus_  and I don’t know if we’ve ever even had a conversation that lasted over a  _minute_!” Rhodey shouted, pointing at the teen in question.

“So is it any fucking wonder I don’t want to live here? Is it really any fucking wonder why I was upset when you asked me to do things? Is it?! I am  _sick and tired_  of being  _used_ ! Like I’m some sort of tool you can throw away when it stops performing for you! At least I get paid for what I do at the junkyard, people don’t pretend to like me to get me to do things for them. I get paid, I have a job and I know that’s what is, it isn’t disguised with pretty words like ‘ _chores_ ’ or ‘ _contributing to the family._ ’”

Rhodey forced himself to take a breath and calm down, looking at the face of his foster dad and Zeus. Zeus looked a little ill and lost, he looked like he wanted to retreat and he throws little unsettled looks to the back of Theodore's head. Theodore just looked crestfallen.

“You failed me,” Rhodey stated. “It isn’t the other way around and I don’t want to hear you try to spin it any other way, because we both know that it’ll be nothing but bullshit. You failed me as a foster parent. You used me for my intelligence, you used me to do what you didn’t want to pay to fix yourself, you never gave a shit about me as a person, and I’ve chosen to separate myself from a toxic situation. I don’t want to hear you say, “ _I’m sorry you didn’t like it here”_ like there was a problem with me instead of you, because that sure as hell wasn't it. I did everything for you at first. Every time you came to me to fix something, I did it. There was never a problem with me. Not even after I stopped, because fixing your shit wasn't my obligation and I should not have felt that that was my responsibility.

“I don’t want to hear you say  _“I’m sorry you didn’t like it here”_  when you could give me a  _real_ apology that, to be honest, I wouldn’t even feel inclined to accept because it’s not like you noticed or changed your ways before I called you out on it right now. Because you of all people should have noticed. Zeus, a person I barely know, should not be the one being like ‘ _oh you noticed how this makes him super uncomfortable, right?’_ That should have been you, on your promise to care for the kids under your care.”

Rhodey noticed open windows and spots the rest of the foster kids listening in. He can’t see Sophie, maybe she’s not listening in, but he didn't care anymore, all he knew is that they’re finally all quiet and they’re finally all listening to him.

“I don’t know if it was because that was all I had to offer you because I wasn’t sporty like the rest of them, or what. I don’t know. All I know is that I had interests that you didn’t share and now I’m living in a shed because that’s more of a home than this house has ever been to me. You never asked me about my projects, never asked me what I was interested in, never asked about my friends, or my robots, or anything remotely related to my past. I wasn’t invited to do anything with you, I was never invited to participate and I realized it wasn’t worth the effort. And that makes me wonder about the rest of these guys,” Rhodey said honestly. “If they didn’t like sports, would you still love them? Would you still support them and try to help them? You didn’t notice I had any issues, while apparently, you did with the rest of the guys, so what was different? Was it your own self interests? Are they even interested in sports or was that just you guys pushing them into it and rewarding that with acceptance?

Rhodey sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve said enough. I guess I’ll come by later and someone will be like ‘Oh, I thought you got moved’ and this whole cycle will start again, so I guess I won’t waste my time. I’ll see you later, Theodore. Text me if you get any of my mail.”

Rhodey waved once as he turns, really more like a wave of dismissal, and started down the road to the junkyard again.

The walk was silent and he just… thinks. Thinks about what he said mostly, and wonders about the kids. He does actually wonder if any of them are interested in sports or if it’s all just to make Theodore and Sophia proud, but he can’t exactly change anyone. All he can do is put it out there, and he has, to the best of his ability. He supposed he’d see if it had any effect when he went to visit next. He sighed and rubbed his face as he turned a corner, watching cars pass. He was tired. Tired in general, tired of all this bullshit, tired of people. Tired of not being able to see Tony. Tired.

He eventually made it to his shed and after greeting his bots and checking up on them, he locked the door, lowered the blinds, and opened the box. Inside the box was basically another box. Well, more like a safe, really, with a handpad on it. As soon as he put his hand on it and it scanned him, it opened up with barely a hiss and click. Swinging the top of it open, he looked down at the suit. The mask stared at him and Rhodey felt his breath caught in his chest momentarily.

The helmet was ominous, and undeniably his. There was something predatory about it, intimidating, and Rhodey knew that it belonged to him pretty much immediately. He couldn’t explain the feeling, it was deep and visceral and undeniable. He picked up the helmet and stared into the eyes, just considering it.

“We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, don’t we?” he said to it. “We’ve got Tony to protect, people to avenge. We’re going to make life hell for a lot of bad people and it’s going to make life better for even more good ones.”

The mask didn’t reply, not that he expected it to, and Rhodey put it back. He grabbed his phone and texted Tony to confirm that his package had arrived. They planned to meet in a few days and that was that.

Late at night, as he tried to fall asleep, he felt the box pull at his vision. He looked at it through the darkness and just thought about the suit inside. Waiting.

There was no way he was getting any sleep tonight so Rhodey sat up, passing his bots as he padded across the floor and crouched by the safe box. He scanned his hand and popped it open. Reaching out, he clicked the desk lamp on and started methodically placing each part of the armor out on the table. The helmet, the folded up chest plate, the boots, the vambraces, and the undersuit. Neatly placed, he stepped back and cocked his head as he examined each piece.

No time like the present, he thought as he pulls off his pajamas and grabs the undersuit, unzipping the seam and slipping it on, then fastening it all the way up to his neck, rolling his shoulders to get it to settle. When it does, it felt like a second skin, natural and graceful. He can breathe easily in it, and it’s remarkable that something so skin tight fits so well. He can feel the armor built into it, the exoskeleton, but it still moves like nothing to it. Rhodey clips on the vambraces and chest plate next, which no longer seemed nearly as heavy as it had moments ago. He opens up the boots and slips his feet in. Each piece of the armor activates and slips over the undersuit flawlessly, covering up more of the suit, offering more protection. Rhodey took the helmet in his hands and lets out a breath.

It clicks open and he slides his head inside. It quickly seals itself shut and the HUD activates. Rhodey blinked and looked around, seeing exactly what it offered him. After a second, a small blue circle appears in the corner of his vision and Rhodey glanced at it.

“Good evening, Master Rhodes,” JARVIS greets.

“Oh, hey J,” Rhodey responds, a little surprised to hear the voice, but pleased anyway because it had been a while.

“I see you’re testing out the suit. I noticed when it pinged online, but thought you’d like a moment to get a feel for it.”

“Yeah, thanks. Did Tony install you in this suit or…?”

“No, he did not, I’m just familiar with all Stark Tech, including the suits, and I am monitoring everything I’m able to connect to. The suit does not need an AI interface precisely, I just make it a bit easier by visiting. For example, during your, shall I say, trial period, I am able to provide advice and commentary and in some instances, take control of the suit before you can cause harm to yourself or others.”

“That’s handy,” Rhodey agreed. “So, what’s your plan?”

“I believe Sir wants to teach you most of the suits functions, but if you’re interested, a test flight wouldn’t go amiss. You are expected to meet Sir a fair distance away and it would be easiest to access through flight.”

Rhodey nodded in agreement.

“Excellent. Exit your establishment and I’ll run you through it.”

Rhodey started across the room again and caught sight of himself in the reflection of his mirror. The armor was dark and shadowy, and the arc reactor sitting against his chest was glowing red instead of blue. His eyes were the same, sharp and dangerous, staring into him.

“Yes, Sir was rather proud of your armor,” JARVIS said after a second. “He wanted it to suit you. You were never the kind to embrace extravagance, and Tony thought the colors, the same grey as most jets, would fit you better than the red and gold he enjoys.”

“Yeah, I like it,” Rhodey agreed after some consideration, and he peered through the window before opening the door and stepping outside.

The junkyard was dark, there was practically no moon that night and they don’t keep everything lit up, not really.

JARVIS briefly ran him through the flight positions that worked best for the suit, providing some examples visually, and after a few awkward first attempts, Rhodey was hovering over the junkyard, gently climbing. Not having anything under his feet was a new experience. He kept staring at the ground, seeing it gently get smaller and smaller, his shed disappearing from sight at some point, even though he knew exactly where it is.

JARVIS made a little note in his vision and it snapped Rhodey out of his staring.

He was flying. Or at the moment, hovering, but as soon as he moves, he’ll be a bird in the wind, and that’s just… insane. He never considered this possibility.

Rhodey chuckled nervously.

“Master Rhodes?”

“Yeah, J?” Rhodey answered absently.

“Normally, I’d offer some sort of sarcastic or witty remark, perhaps prompt you with some sort of challenge, but in this case, my instruction will be simple, are you ready?”

Rhodey nodded.

_“Fly.”_

And with that, Rhodey did. He turned his head to the dark horizon and moved. He gained height quickly, suit piercing the clouds and letting the sliver of moon pave his way in a soft blue glow. He could see the light JARVIS put up dim somewhat, the HUD clearing as he started moving, started really moving, trying to hit supersonic speeds, seeing how the suit moved, feeling air pull at his skin and slip away. The speed, the power, the roar of the wind was something that made him feel  _alive,_ and he didn’t realize that he was grinning until a hot tear drop ran along his smile.

It made him feel like he had a place in the world, it made him feel elation build in his chest as his heart pounded like a drum.

He started laughing as he did a barrel roll, turning it into a complete flip at the end and leveling out after just above the cloud line. He dropped one hand to touch, as if he could actually feel the clouds just under him, and then simply dove in, letting the dim greyness swallow him up like he was under water. It was remarkably calming, and Rhodey felt himself let out an easy breath, closing his eyes momentarily.

After a minute, he opened his eyes again and twists so his stomach is facing the ground again. He dove through the clouds, coming out on the other side over empty country and glanced around.

“JARVIS, can you guide me home please?”

“Of course. I must ask for clarification, however; do you mean the junkyard shed, or Sir?”

Rhodey felt himself flush. “You’re a real comedian, the shed, please.”

“Of course,” JARVIS said smugly, and directions appear on the display.

Rhodey recorrected himself, getting himself on the path provided, and mutters, “I mean, you’re right, but I’m never going to admit it.” He didn’t really want to say it, but he felt like it needed to be communicated somehow, and at least saying that he’d never admit it was keeping plausible deniability to some degree.

JARVIS has the  _audacity_  to  _chuckle_  at him and Rhodey suddenly got the sensation that JARVIS would be ruffling his hair fondly if he could and Rhodey’s lost as to what he should be doing with that sort of realization as he soars through the skies.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Rhodey is standing in the middle of a field dressed up in his armor, waiting for Tony to arrive. Rhodey is feeling pretty excited about the whole thing, to be honest, but he was nervous too. He hadn’t seen Tony in real life since… since before he got shipped off to the Hammer’s.

So it was a big day. He felt like he should have brought flowers, but he wasn't even sure where he’d stash those. He was debating picking some of the wildflowers along the field when he heard a voice loud and clear in his ear.

“Rhodey!”

“Tony?” Rhodey looked around for Tony, trying to figure out where he was coming from, and spotted a red and glow blur headed for him.

“Comin’ in hot!” Tony said cheerfully, not phased by his speed or trajectory.

Alarmed, Rhodey threw out his hands in warning, hoping Tony slows down a bit because he was flying in  _really fast_ , and he shouted: “Woah, woah,  _woah woah_!”

Tony slammed into him despite this and they went flying. Everything turns to blurred motion and static and wild flailing limbs ad a rush of color for a moment before they settled and Rhodey could blink past the surprise and suck the air that was driven from his chest back in with a groan. He felt a weight pinning him to the ground and he felt it shift. When he looked, he saw Tony perched on him, chin resting on knitted fingers.

“Hi,” Tony said flirtily, and Rhodey recognized the tone.

Rhodey groaned and opened his faceplate, pleased when Tony’s opened as well, letting him see his Tony for the first time in years. He was gorgeous as ever, with those big doe eyes and cute bright smile. Rhodey could see hair plastered to his head, spilling down over his forehead from the helmet and thought it was nothing less than adorable.

“I feel like a bumper car,” Rhodey informed him because that was the first thing he could think of. “Please don’t do that again.”

Tony laughed and leaned forward. Their faceplates clacked together, so Tony turned his head and Rhodey felt lips briefly touch his nose, light and soft as butterfly wings, but finished with a loud ‘muah!’ It was like a gunshot in comparison.

“Alright, alright, I’m glad to see you again too,” Rhodey laughed. “Now can I get up?”

Tony seemed to think about it. “I guess,” he said eventually, running a finger down Rhodey chest. Not that he could feel it, but it was cute to see anyway. “But I like having you on your back.”

Exasperation hits him like a train. “Are you trying to call yourself a top? Tony, you are a goddamn pillow princess and you fucking know it,” Rhodey retorted and Tony cackled, rolling off of him to start kicking his feet in the air like a fallen rabbit.

Rhodey sat up and grinned down at Tony, who calmed down a few moments later and started sucking in large breaths to get air back into his lungs, still smiling in amusement. Tony offered a gauntleted hand and Rhodey took it without hesitation, just holding it and allowing himself to sit in the moment. The moment in which he considered his friend lying among a bed of white, yellow, and orange flowers, all which matched his suit and him so well.

Maybe he should have picked a bouquet after all.

Tony let out a sigh at Rhodey focused again. “You want to know how the suit works?”

“Hell yeah,” Rhodey replied, but he would have agreed to anything Tony offered at that moment.

Tony explained gauntlets worked, both in flight and as weapons, making Rhodey go through the motions, firing into the distant tree line. He then pointed out the weapons systems as Rhodey looked at the blueprints, pulled up on the HUD, to see how the suit functioned. Tony rambled about the tests he had done on and in the suit which helped Rhodey get a bit better of an understanding.

Once he was set in the full functions of the suit, and the dubious material makeup of the undersuits, which he was told were pretty much impervious to everything thanks to JARVIS.

After that, Tony wanted to fly with him. Rhodey wanted to mention that he had some test flights, but ten to twenty minutes of practice is nothing to what Tony had been up to. That didn't stop that feeling of wonder from coming back as Tony took his hands and they start up into the air. It makes Rhodey just blurt what he had been thinking the whole time. “Holy shit, this is so crazy.”

“You think it’s crazy now, just wait till we hit Mach 3,” Tony laughed as he pulled away, letting Rhodey hover where he is for the moment. “C’mon, try to keep up!”

Tony darted away, throwing him a teasing look Rhodey could see through the mask, despite its firm features. “Can’t catch me!”

“Oh, we’ll see about that!” Rhodey announced bravely and the chase was on. Tony was a much better flier. Rhodey had scratched the surface with that initial flight, he’d done some basic tricks, gotten used to how it handles at some reasonable speeds, but Tony was fast and knew exactly how to move to throw Rhodey off his tail. The only reason Rhodey caught him in the end what that JARVIS had his locator up on the screen.

Rhodey tackled Tony into a grove of trees, and he was pretty sure they broke quite a few branches on the way down, but he was laughing too hard to pay any attention to that.

“JARVIS? Where are we?” Tony asked after a while. They had taken their helmets off, so when JARVIS responded, it was from the abandoned helmet.

“You’re pretty much in the very middle of the state of Pennsylvania, sir,” JARVIS replied.

“Pretty much?” Tony questioned. “That’s unusually vague for you, Jay.”

“You’re right, sir, my apologies. Allow me to rephrase: you’re in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere.”

Tony cackled and Tony followed. From there, they just lazed around and talked about nothing of consequence. It was nice not to have to think about all the other bullshit he usually does. Just talking about food and drinks, and major politically affiliated issues and the mechanics of the suit.

Eventually, it started getting dark, so Tony had JARVIS book them reservations at the best hotel he could find nearby. They gathered their stuff and headed out, flying high above the ground. It was nice. Before they got there, they landed in a secluded area and changed into their spare clothes, their suits retract into inconspicuous cases. The plating folded over the components and turned the suits into easy to carry suits. They kept their undersuits on, just throwing normal clothes over them, and checked in.

The hotel was nice, nicer than a lot of places Rhodey had stayed in before. There was a pool, an all you can eat buffet, awesome beds, and fancy large rooms. They were pretty beat after all their flying, so after freshening up and eating, they headed to bed.

The room had two queens with nice fluffy down blankets and nice comfortable pillows. The sheets were probably silk, and the air conditioner was functioning at reasonable levels, meaning that he wasn’t freezing cold. Rhodey rolled over in the middle of the night to look over at Tony on his own bed. The light from the arc-reactor in Tony’s chest was shining through his shift and Rhodey was struck by the fact that he didn’t know if he had ever seen Tony sleep on his back. Rhodey sat up and just watched blue shadows shift as Tony breathed.

Rhodey slid out of the bed and padded over, leaning over Tony. He looked… he looked so peaceful, like Sleeping Beauty. Sure, his hair was a mess, and there was a small line of drool on the corner of his mouth, but he looked pretty as ever. Rhodey reached out without meaning to and hid index finger traced the line of the reactor, the hard metal warmed by body heat and fusion before he pulled it away.

Feeling jittery, Rhodey walked away and got a glass of water from the kitchen area before getting back into his bed. He fell asleep to thoughts of warm blue and metal.

 

* * *

 

Ten days later, after Rhodey really got into practicing with the suit, he and Tony go on an actual mission together. Tony has already sent him all the necessary information, so he had a pretty good idea of what they’re doing, how to do it, who to target, and what to do. But that didn't mean he wasn't nervous, so he practices until he felt like using the suit is second nature.

They fly across the ocean separately, and honestly, the flight was a bit boring, but it gave him time to think and let his nerves settle, reminding himself that he and Tony would be safe and that they’re both competent people. Competent enough. He had time to come to terms with the fact that he may kill people, terrorists who want to kill innocent people, and that this was for his parents, and for Tony.

He felt a little stronger.

For Tony. For mom, for dad.

He flew a little faster.

For everything those bastards took from him.

He felt a little angrier.

For everything they took from Tony.

He felt a little more powerful.

Rhodey kept flying, keeping himself focused and calm. Rhodey noticed Tony about ten minutes before they hit their location and easily adjusted to Tony’s flight pattern as he slid up next to Tony.about ten minutes from their final location and spun over to fly beside him.

“Hey,” Tony said over the comm. “You ready?”

“Mostly,” Rhodey replied, nerves jumping as he looked at the map on the HUD and their ETA. “Just- trying to get in the right headspace.”

“Everything is bulletproof, hell, bomb proof even. We’ll be fine, I swear,” Tony offered.

“Right. I know that,” Rhodey agreed, but he couldn’t help being nervous, despite all the tests he did himself over the last ten days.

Tony pauses slightly. “Coming in on the drop zone, get ready.”

“Right,” Rhodey acknowledged and kept by Tony’s sides. The town came into view, and Rhodey was struck by just how bad the destruction was. The town was half in ruins, smoke billowing from some parts as explosions threw dirt and fired into the air. He saw a quick streak fire through the air and demolish a house, somebody's home. Who knew if they were inside or not at the time. His resolve solidified with all the self coaching he had been working through on his way over.

“Time to kick ass,” he said darkly.

“That’s the spirit!” Tony said cheerfully and spun neatly, already dropping.

Rhodey darted after him, a little less gracefully, but kept up, following Tony’s motions. The landings, Rhodey has come to understand, are harsh, but because they’re meant to be. The suits weren’t really designed for stealth, so when they make an arrival, they make an arrival. The ground shakes as they hit it and Rhodey is fairly certain it wasn’t because of the bombs. Tony got to work immediately, but Rhodey took a split second to look around, finding his targets before… striking. He almost wasn’t aware of himself for the first minute. It was just… finding someone and hitting them, either with fists or blasters. The men with guns, the men with bombs, the ones ripping children from parents, Rhodey locked on and didn’t leave until they were dealt with.

It was a little surreal, working on taking out each and every one of them in the area. He knew he was dealing lethal damage to some of the terrorists around him, but he just… couldn’t make himself feel guilty. The pain of his parents death, the agony of waiting to learn whether or not Tony had died at that hands of these people overrode any sympathy he had for them, and that should say something, but as Rhodey watched a man chase a man and a woman into a shambled house, pulling the pin off a grenade and tossing it in, he felt nothing but the desire to make the man pay, to make him suffer.

Rhodey was too far down the street to stop the grenade, way too far, not even a blast from his repulsor would reach in time, but that didn’t stop Rhodey from shooting down the road as soon as he could, grabbing the man by the neck as he passed by, and slamming him into the building at the end of the street. The force of it either broke his neck or back because he went limp, and Rhodey dropped him, scanning for his next target.

Eventually, he found Tony again, near the stash of missiles and bombs, and they started destroying everything in sight, bullets and shrapnel sliding off their bodies or redirected entirely.

Then the streets were silent. The terrorist all dead, dying, or run off with their tails between their legs. The smart ones would have hidden. That didn’t stop Rhodey from scanning the area, itching for one more person to blast.

“We’re done here,” Tony said after a bit, smoke blowing past them and slowly clearing up. “Let’s go.”

Rhodey was tempted to simply agree and leave, but after his brief scan, all he was was more suffering, this kind they couldn't fight. He saw a woman move toward a house screaming in a language he didn’t speak, begging and crying and digging. The building was sort of intact, but the ceiling had caved in and crumbled awkwardly, cracked into a few large pieces.

“Wait,” Rhodey burst out, grabbing Tony as he watched her. “There- there's someone stuck under that building. That woman is crying and trying to dig them out, Tony we have to help.”

“Support the roof, let they get their people out,” Tony agreed almost at once, sounding a little more invested in this now. “JARVIS give me the strong points of the collapsed roof.”

Together, holding onto the pieces of the ceiling by their strongest points, the two pulled it up and over their heads, allowing a group of five Afghan women and men in to dig. There were three people trapped in the rubble, and one body. Once they were all out again, Tony and Rhodey dropped the roof. They couldn’t do too much else and they had to leave before the army got there.

They were in the air minutes later, Rhodey trailing after Tony. He felt emotions churning up in him now, other than vindictive rage and cold calmness, and he edged forward, bumping knuckles with Tony. Tony deactivated the thruster and so did Rhodey, their palms sliding together and linking fingers.

The swell of emotion died down to manageable levels and Rhodey just focused on the pressure of the hand holding his.

 

* * *

 

“It was… intense, to be there,” Rhodey said over his rings communicator, trying to puzzle his words together carefully. “To actually be fighting the people, or at least, the group that killed my parents. To see what they were doing and to be able to stop it before they hurt more people. It felt good. But also… bad, because I know that I killed some of those men. I feel like I should be more guilty, but I punched one of them in the chest, had to be fatal, had to be, after I saw him throw a grenade into a building and I just felt… glad.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling,” Tony agreed. “They’re hurting people and the only way to get them to stop is to stop them permanently. They don’t reason with people, they just hurt them. We need to learn to speak the same language. Violence.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it,” Rhodey muses, looking out the window into the junkyard, still thinking, trying to process the day. “It was also nice to help out afterward. Do you think we could set aside some time to help out the people there after our missions?”

It would make him feel better about all the chaos they cause first. Make him feel more like they’re actually helping. Sure, getting rid of a problem is a good thing, but fixing the damage the problem caused is even better.

“I think- I think that would be a good thing. Besides the whole helping out and being a good person aspect, it would be a good stick it to the Ten Rings as well.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey agreed. He liked that, a real ‘fuck you’ to the people who want nothing but to kill and destroy. “Yeah, that’s a good point.” Rhodey’s attention was caught by Jason, who was pretty much just kind of standing in the middle of the shed, staring at him pointedly. He pointed at the alarm clock, at the time displayed and then put his hands on his hips, waiting. Rhodey immediately felt bad for disrupting his bots sleep time and cursed. “Shit- I have to go. I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

He slid off of his spot on his desk and hit the lights, plunging the shed into darkness.

“Totally,” Tony agrees.

“Bye, Tones,” Rhodey rushed out and got ready for bed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you three up.”

Sailor and Sweetheart chirped from under the bed to forgive him and Jason beeped once firmly before vanishing under the bed to get into their blanket nest to go to sleep. Rhodey began brushing his teeth in the sink he installed and when he was finished, he quickly got into bed and settled in, briefly checking his phone before closing his eyes.

_Milliondollerbaby: hey, u wearing those jammies I got u_

Rhodey squinted at the message and felt a little caught out.

_Rocketman: one, it is two in the morning, and two, ya bc they soft and shit man i lov em_

He couldn’t deny that silk pajamas were very nice and that purple complimented him. Plus, sometimes Rhodey liked feeling fancy. He got that from Tony.

 

* * *

 

The next day is family normal, but he got a text from Sofia. He didn’t read it. He kept putting it off, he wanted to pretend that wasn’t a problem he had to deal with, and if it was really important she’d text again or call, right?

She didn’t, so Rhodey didn’t pay any mind to it.

Instead, he went to work. He performed system checks on all the junkyard equipment and went along to fix up a few more cars for Mr. Lee to sell. It was nice to work on something familiar as he thought about the suit locked up in his shed. It was powerful, dangerous, and his through and through, the armor was part of him now, just settling in the back of his mind, an entirely new mindset but… it needed a personal touch.

Rhodey’s hands tested and replaced spark plugs as he considered possible additions to the suit without too much integrity being threatened, and he thought about lasers.

Squinting, he considered the engine in front of him and bit his lip, wondering if that was a good idea, and how he’d get constant power to the weapons so he wouldn’t have to replace batteries willy nilly.

He decided to spend some time looking at what he knew about his lasers and how to both reduce energy consumption as well as supply the energy required to power something like that. After telling the boss two of the cars were good to go, he went back to his shed and spent a few hours listening to music and doodling potential plans, thinking of the materials he’d need and studying the suit blueprints. He could make some edits… he could use parts from the junkyard, and… hmm. This might just work.

The next day, after finalizing the first set of blueprints in the morning and spending his morning looking for the parts he could get his hands on initially. Jason was riding around in his tank, enjoying the morning and opportunity, having a nice stroll and patrol. In the evening, Rhodey’s working at the shredder, because they’ve got some big components and cars they need to dice up and crunch, and the others are pretty antsy about it, so they want Rhodey to monitor everything and bring his lasers just in case. Rhodey might have fixed the problem, but that didn’t mean something else couldn’t go wrong.

It was as he was standing near the shredder, hard hat on his head, bright reflective vest on, Tony’s HUD visors protecting his eyes and providing data, holding his laser parts in case he needed to use them, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

Blinking, he looked toward the person, expecting one of the other employees, and was befuddled to find a lady standing there looking troubled, wearing a helmet that wasn’t even adjusted to her head. She was clutching a clipboard to her chest and seemed to be grimacing.

“Can I help you?” Rhodey asked her.

“My name is Stacy Miller, I’m your CPS agent,” she explained. “Your previous agent was investigated for taking bribes and a few other charges. I came to check up on you. And I found that you weren’t at your foster home.”

Dread sinks into Rhodey and he felt himself pale.

“I found that you haven’t been at your foster home for months,” she continues meaningfully. “And that you’ve been working under the table at a junkyard, where you live.”

Something inside of Rhodey tells him to run, but he focuses. “And what about it?” Rhodey asked calmly.

She watched him carefully and Rhodey looked back at the shredder, watching the other grind up the cars in question with minimal problems. They manage to get through the car and everything turns out all right. After getting a thumbs up from the Tom, Carlos, and Annie, Rhodey tips his helmet.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Mrs. Miller asked.

Rhodey sighed and motioned for her to follow him. He leads her to his shed and opens it up, waving her inside. She looked around, examining his room, seeing the kind of facilities he was built himself. It’s nice. He has his own desk and kitchen area and a nice bed and a dresser he had put stickers on, and it’s all fucking perfect and he likes it here. He has all the scrap he could ever want and he can already feel himself get choked up as he thought about losing what he built himself here.

Mrs. Miller sat on the chair at the desk and folds her hands, lacing her finger together. Rhodey sat on his bed and took off his helmet.

“So,” Rhodey said dully. “I can guess what your plan is.”

She nods. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” Rhodey said, and he felt anger creep up his throat. “You’re not even a little bit sorry.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I can assure you that I am,” she pretty much scolds him. “I want to move you because the Hapskins clearly don’t provide the homelife you need. You’ve been living in and working at a junkyard for god's sake. It’s not safe here, especially for a child.”

“I’m not a child,” Rhodey argues.

“And I’ve spoken with Jesus,” she adds. “He explained why you left.”

Rhodey is pissed that Jesus shared anything, but he didn't exactly blame him. “I’m fine here. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem is you’re isolating yourself and you’ve technically run away from your foster home. You’ve taken a dangerous job as a minor, breaking child labor laws that prohibit children from working in jobs like these, and you’re living in unsuitable conditions alone, without a guardian. It’s not beneficial for your health, safety, security, or happiness.”

“Since when has CPS given a shit about my happiness?” Rhodey snapped, unable to help himself. “When that asshole took a bribe from the Hammer family so he could get access to Stark weapon designs through me? When he wanted to use me to make his weapons better and sales go up because the only thing I meant to him was an up in revenue? When Justin Hammer plagiarized my work by claiming it his own? When you placed me with a family who only valued my ability to fix things? When you decided to take me away from the life I built because it didn’t suit you?” Rhodey seethed. “When did CPS start giving a shit about my happiness?”

Mrs. Miller looked pained and Rhodey felt glad of it.

“This shed pretty much suits the foster home safety checklist,” Rhodey said neutrally. “There are showers and bathrooms accessible to me in the junkyard. I get paid, so I have food and fresh water. The door locks. I’m safe here. I’m happy here. If you move me, I will never forgive you.”

Her face twists into something conflicted and agonized. She stared down at her clipboard.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll be coming to pick you up tomorrow from the Hapskin’s house.”

“Get out of my shed.”

She stands up and leaves, but before she closes the door behind her, she said, “If you don’t come with me tomorrow, I will have to call the police to extract you. And we will pack your things for you.”

The door shuts and Rhodey puts his head in his hands. His anger sat in his neck, but hot tears stream from his eyes as he loses everything he built for himself in one sentence. Suddenly, the home he built felt absent and lost, the walls around him no longer his own. He sobs into his hands, crumpling in on himself, feeling so, so alone as he tried to muffle the sound.

His bots come out from their hiding places and pile up onto his lap, providing what comfort they can. Rhodey loses his life for a third time in one sentence and he mourns.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Lee is understanding and he said that they’ll miss Rhodey. He didn't doubt it and he provided all the notes he’s taken on the equipment for future mechanics.

“Listen, you can come around any time you like and take what scrap you want. You earned that,” Mr. Lee said honestly. “You’ve been an invaluable employee, not officially of course.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey agrees. “I’m sorry it’s short notice, but I don’t really have a choice,” he adds bitterly.

“I hope to see you again sometime, kid,” Mr. Lee said, and soon enough, Rhodey is packing all his stuff up onto a half broken shopping cart and the old wagon to take to the house tomorrow.

He packs up the folded up crafts he made his bots, all his tools, his clothes are put in a suitcase. He loads the security box holding his suit up, he puts the parts he’d been working on in an old dusty duffle bag, he packs up his personal belongings in his backpack, carefully tucking away burial flags. He puts his computer and all of his things away and suddenly the state of the shed reflects the lack of familiarity associated with a home. He sat on his bed and tried not to cry again, but it’s not fucking easy.

He just felt sad and miserable and upset. He wanted to go home. He misses his parents. He misses the hours earlier where this shed looked like his room, he misses feeling ownership over it all. He misses the permanence of making a home for himself. He misses Tony.

His bots sit up on the desk, twiddling their thumbs and glancing around.

Rhodey wanted to say something to them, but every time he tried he just can’t, so they sit in silence. He should say something to Tony, but right now he just wanted to sit and take it in. He didn't want Tony’s reassurance, he didn't want to hear any excuses, and he keeps thinking about how he said he’d never forgive Mrs. Miller and she ripped him from his home anyway.

He was never going to forgive her.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey isn’t sure exactly when he falls asleep, but he wakes the next morning with sunshine on his face and dread hits him squire in the chest pretty much immediately.

“Fuck,” he sighed and brings up his hands to rub his face, taking a few breaths until resignation washes over the dread and he can manage to sit up. Sighing, Rhodey changes from yesterday’s clothes into something fresh. His bots are packing up their chargers and climbing into Rhodey’s backpack with little waves and thumbs up.

Rhodey crouches beside them. “Thanks for being so good about this,” he tells them. “It’s not easy to move and I’m glad your managing. But if you need to talk, or anything, just wave me down, okay? I know you're all not managing  _this_  well, and you’re doing a good job of hiding it, but for real, if you need to say something or need hugs, I will provide them without question.”

He got several thumbs up, which was good enough for him.

Rhodey did a sweep of the shed before declaring it void of any of his possessions. It was clean too, he made sure of it. He left the dishes beside the sink, with the tank he emptied of dirty water. He had to leave behind some things, like his coffee maker and most of the kitchen stuff, and the solar panels and generator, but there was no fixing that.

He left his shed and the life he built behind, locking the door behind him and turning the key and his helmet in at the office on his way out. Everybody is there- Mr. Lee, Ashley, Tom, Carlos, Miguel, Annie, Jada, and Olivia. All waiting around. Turns out, word got around quick and they got him a leaving gift.

Rhodey looked at the hastily wrapped present sitting at the front desk, wrapped in that day’s newspaper in fact, and hesitantly opens it up. Inside is a black hoodie, approximately his size, the back of it reading “ _I might look like a mechanic, I might smell like a mechanic, I might even be a mechanic, but that doesn’t mean I’ll fix your shit for free!”_

Rhodey blinked, stupefied by how close that hits to home and surprised any of the others noticed. Or maybe it was luck, but he doubted it. Beneath that is a case filled with what looked like doll clothes, sweatpants, shirts, sweaters, little hats, pajamas. Rhodey blinked at it and looked up at his coworkers, unable to form words.

“We, uh, see those robots hanging around sometimes. They’re not all that subtle. And we saw them wearing clothes sometimes, so we figured they’d might like a selection to choose from,” Annie cuts in hesitantly.

A curious beep came from Rhodey’s backpack and he hears it unzip, one of them looking out. Peep crawls over his shoulder and jumped into the box, holding aloft a blue sweater and beeping in glee.

“You… you did this all for us? You-” Rhodey can feel himself tearing up and he sniffs, clutching his box close and trying to swipe at his face to stop the tears, but they just don’t, they run down his face in hot sticky paths and he hears them surround him, putting hands on his back of shoulders, Jada hugging him and murmuring softly in Spanish. Why did this group of people know him better than the family he was supposed to be accepted by? They didn’t care he has sentient bots that roamed around freely, they knew that he worked for himself and nobody else, they knew he hated being used.

They got him one of the best presents he’d ever received.

“Sorry, I didn’t wanna cry,” he manages tightly, scrubbing at his face. “Fuck, why are you all so much better than my foster family? Ugh, you’re just making it harder to leave.”

There were some scattered laughs and they pulled back a bit.

“Sometimes coworkers make a better family,” Tom notes gently. “I hope you get on well at your new house.”

“Thank you,” Rhodey said. “Really. It means a lot to me, all of this.”

Peep climbed out of the box wearing the sweater and made a warbling noise in agreement, looking pleased. They signed a thank you.

“Peep says thank you,” Rhodey translated.

“Aw, no problem, little robot,” Miguel cooed.

“I better get going,” Rhodey said, packing his new hoodie up and slipping the box of robot clothes into his bag with the bots, making sure they still have space. “I don’t want to get picked up by a cop. But I’ll miss you all, and I’ll visit if I can.”

“Keep your helmet as a memento,” Mr. Lee insists. 

Rhodey took it back off the desk and holds it. “Thank you.

He was sent off with words of encouragement and sad faces wishing him the best. He started out and tried to keep his chin up as he started down the street with minimal difficulty. Olivia ran after him and slowed when she caught up, panting a bit.

“Let me help you with your cart, kid,” she insisted and Rhodey let her take the shopping cart, pulling the wagon himself. “Wanna make sure you get back safe.”

“Thanks,” Rhodey said. “It’s not- it’s not too far. Just a few blocks.”

“No problem,” she said breezily. “I’ve hauled heavier loads at the yard than this.”

The trip is pretty nice. It’s nice to have help and company. Rhodey finds himself telling Olivia all about Tony.

“He’s my best friend, maybe more than that. I’d do anything for him, and he looked real pretty in the jewelry he wears. He looks good in everything he wears, but he looks drop dead gorgeous when he decides to spruce himself up a bit.”

“Sounds like a cute fella,” Olivia agrees with a smile.

“He gave me some of the coding I used in my bots. He’s really smart, managed to figure out how to make an AI sentient. He’s got a really advanced one that could probably take over the world, but he was too nice too. Or, well, thinks it’s below him. I don’t really know.”

“Well, I for one will welcome our AI overlords. Maybe they can run a country better than these dipsticks.”

Rhodey huffed a laugh and they arrive at the house, pulling the cart and wagon into the front yard. Zeus is sitting out front, twiddling his thumbs, and looking anxious. Sofia is there too, leaning on the banister.

“Ma’am,” Olivia said, eyeing the other woman and putting her hands on her hips.

“Hello?”

“Y’all mind if I talk to this lady in private for a moment?” Olivia asked Rhodey.

“Uh, sure,” Rhodey agrees, a little confused. “I should check to make sure I have all my stuff from here too.”

“You did,” Zeus said immediately, standing. “A bunch of shirts that don’t fit the rest of us and stuff. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Rhodey went up the steps and slips inside the house after Zeus, who leads him to the bunk room, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, um,” Zeus started. “You were right, you know. When you asked if any of us were even interested in sports.”

Rhodey blinked. “What? Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, some of us were. But Christian quit to do music. He’d been practicing the guitar after school on the side. Hid it from the rest of us. Embarrassed, or something. He looked… he looked really upset when he admitted it, said he didn’t want to play anymore, that he didn’t really like it all that much. Didn’t like getting hurt, didn’t like the sport all that much. Tyson said he wanted to learn to play the piano better because his dad had taught him to play when he was little, so that happened too and he quit basketball. Mason dropped soccer to do art. He’s a really good artist. Does a lot of landscapes and nature things, he’s in some classes now. Noah actually said he wanted to do first aid, he’s trying to become a paramedic. Been studying stuff like that. Hunter and Jayden stuck with their sports, they did actually like that stuff, but they’re putting some more work into their school assignments. And I’m still doing football, but I’ve been, you know, thinking about joining the chess club. And some other things, maybe writing, always kinda liked doing that. I don’t know. I wasn’t really hiding any repressed talent, I just… realized there were other things and that football wasn’t really my idea.”

“Huh,” Rhodey said, dazed at the influx of news as he stepped into the room. “Well, I’m… I’m glad I could clear some things up.”

“Yeah, it’s been a bit of an emotional mess here,” Zeus admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, and he motioned to Rhodey’s bed.

Rhodey, of course, noticed a small pile of shirts and a handful of small tools he misplaced, including a tablet pen, but he looked around the room and noticed that it smelled fresher. There wasn’t a pile of sweaty laundry in the corner, everything was tied up and sports equipment was replaced with other stuff. A stack of painted canvases on the side of one of the dressers, paint supplies piled near a bed. He could see a guitar case on another bed, a keyboard peeking out from under a bed, a few medical books on a bed, a printed packed about first aid opened and sections highlighted. There were still bats and sports stuff, but it was tidier, more contained.

“I’m…” Rhodey hesitated. “Proud of you guys. For listening and thinking about it.”

“Yeah,” Zeus said nervously, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah. Um. Thanks. I… Um. It kinda hit us, that Theo wasn’t really… all he seemed about this stuff. He was good to us. He was a good dad, but then he failed you and we started wondering if he failed us somehow too. Kinda did. And Sofia too, of course, but… I don’t know. It was kind of the sports pressure from them both of them. Had to live up to them somehow.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Rhodey agrees and he picks up his stuff, sliding tools in his pockets and picking up his lost shirts.

Zeus stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking back to the door. “Think they’re done?”

“I don’t know,” Rhodey admitted. “Might as well go see. Hey, if, uh, when you see the rest of the guys…”

“I’ll tell ‘em,” Zeus promises and they head out again. Olivia and Sofia seemed to be done talking, and Sofia was looking adequately chastised as Olivia stood with crossed arms, just waiting. Olivia smiled when she spotted them.

“All set, kid?”

“Yeah, just some shirts and tools I left by accident,” Rhodey assured and noticed a dark car pull up in front of the house. He felt his decent mood drain right out of him as he spotted Mrs. Miller. He methodically put his shirts in his clothes bag and crosses his arms, trying not to seem as sour and bitter about this as he was.

Mrs. Miller stepped out of her car and rounded it, heading up the pathway.

“James, are you ready to go?” she asked.

“Sure,” Rhodey said tightly, motioning to his stuff. “Just got to load up.”

Zeus and Olivia helped him. Most of it went in the trunk, but a few things were but in the back with Rhodey’s bag, with his bots. Once everything was all set, the trunk was closed and Rhodey got in the back seat. Olivia reached through the window and ruffled his hair.

“You be good, kid. Visit if you can,” she told him.

“I already said I would. And… thanks,” Rhodey said honestly.

“Bye, James!” Zeus called out from the front lawn.

“Bye, Zeus!”

And minutes later, they were on the road, the house vanishing behind him.. Rhodey was sad to leave it all behind, angry that he had to, and whenever he saw Mrs. Miller’s reflection in the rearview mirror, he felt a flash of cold anger flow through him. He hoped she noticed it. Rhodey opened his bag and checked on his bots, who glanced up at him as they sat in the mess of clothes they had made. They must have had some sort of dress up party because the box of doll clothes was practically empty and it was spilled out everywhere. Jason was wearing a nice yellow t-shirt, and Sweetheart was in a short blue dress, more like a long shirt with a belt at the middle and grey sweatpants, somehow pulling off the look, and Rhodey smiled at her.

‘I like the clothes,’ Sweetheart signed and Rhodey snorted.

 

* * *


	5. 'Steada treated, we get tricked (Pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world went silent and Rhodey looked up into Stane’s eyes, eyes that are wide and stunned.
> 
> “You do not get to threaten what is mine and Tony is mine,” Rhodey said with as much viciousness as he felt in his heart, glaring straight into the shriveled black remains of Stane’s cold slimy soul. Rhodey started to twists the sword to see how Stane’s expression turns pale and pained with morbid curiosity. It’s cruel and Rhodey can’t help how much he enjoys it. He hopes it hurts. He can see that it does. “You tried to kill him, so I killed you. ”
> 
> “Y-you-” Stane’s mouth seemed to stop working.
> 
> “Go to hell,” Rhodey said with bared teeth.

* * *

 

He does not thank his CPS agents when they arrive. He barely looked at her, and he makes his displeasure well known, the car is positive icy. The next house appears nice from the outside, and the foster parents, Mary and Hugo Peterson, are pleasant enough in welcoming. Their other foster kid, Micky, is- how can Rhodey put this nicely- a total and utter disgusting slob. The room they’re going to share is clean, but clearly only because he was instructed to clean it and he didn’t do a great job hiding crumbs, candy wrappers, chip bags. The room smells like Febreze to mask the smell of dirty laundry, and Rhodey can see dirt stained clothes stick out from under the closet door. The guy himself looked well enough, a sort of tall white kid with unkempt hair, but he smells like way too much Axe body spray, his clothes are rumpled and uncared for, and his teeth just look uncared for, much like the rest of him.

Besides the fact that the room is gross and Rhodey might be able to see grease dripping off the wall in the corner Mickey’s bed is closest too, it’s pretty nicely set up.

There are beds on opposite sides of the room, a dresser besides the closet, a desk between the beds, a short bookshelf at the foot of Micky’s bed that’s been loaded with books on the bottom half, and bins of unidentifiable junk on the top, a few pairs of smelly shoes on top for easy access. There’s a bedside table beside Micky’s bed as well with a lamp.

The shared bathroom, next to the closet, smells like socks and is dirty in all the wrong ways. Rhodey grimaces at the sight of what might be  _mold_  in the trash can and prays to Tesla for salvation from this disgusting human being and his lack of personal care.

Once Rhodey’s things are all inside, he spends a few minutes talking with both of his foster parents, tossed a cold glare to his CPS agent, who looked away and soon leaves, and Rhodey went back to the room.

Micky was sprawled across his twin bed, which looked like the sheets hadn’t been cleaned since he got there, a body shaped sweat stain under where he is, and was chewing gum with an open mouth.

“Alright, so let’s divvy up the room,” Micky reasons.

“Let’s,” Rhodey agreed, glancing at him in disdain.

“So I get the closet, you get the dresser. It’s empty and stuff. I never use the desk, so go ahead with that if you want it. The table and lamp here are mine, and so’s the bookshelf. Wanna put tape down the center to show boundaries?”

“Sure.”

Mickey rolls off his bed and opens the drawer of his bedside table, pulling out a roll of duct tape. He eyeballs the room and puts a strip right down the center of it, dividing it in half. They have to move the desk and dresser, which is good for Rhodey because they end up on his side.

“You can cross to get out or go to the bathroom,” Mickey said offhandedly and collapsed back in his bed.

Rhodey gave his back a look and decided never to use that bathroom. The one in the hall will do fine.

Rhodey took a minute to examine his half of the room before arranging a bit. He puts the dresser against the wall opposite the bathroom, shifts his bed to face the front of the room, not perpendicular to Mickey’s, and puts the desk across from the bed. Satisfied with that arrangement, Rhodey started unpacking, putting his clothes away neatly, putting his work stuff in or around the desk, slides the box with his suit under his bed. He pushes his bag, the one with his bots, under the bed and opens it there.

They peer at him, taking in what they can, and crawl out soon after. Rhodey puts a finger to his lips and then outstretches a hand to convey calmness and tell them to stay put. Most of their things are in that bag anyway, so they can easily unpack and get settled.

“Do you think we could, I don’t know, get a curtain for privacy at some point?” Rhodey asked as he stood.

“That would probably be for the best, actually. In case we gotta, y’know…” Mickey leered and made a jacking off motion against his crotch.

“Everything about you makes me want to die,” Rhodey said tiredly. “When can we get that curtain up?”

Micky shrugs. “Whenever you get a curtain.”

Rhodey quickly exits the room and locates the foster parents, who are speaking in a conspiring manner up until Rhodey makes himself present.

“Yes, James? Do you need something?” Mary asked.

“I want to set up a privacy curtain in the room, is there anything I can use for that? An old sheet? Anything?”

“Uh,” Hugo said. “I think we have a could of old sheets, actually. Can I ask why?”

“I’m a very private person,” Rhodey said in a way he knew sounds pointed and a little too cold but can’t quite manage to control. “And I like having my own space.”

They find him two sheets that he tapes, himself, to the ceiling over the division the long way, so it reaches from floor to ceiling. Rhodey, likewise, tapes it against the walls and subtly hangs little metal chimes at the bottom of the entrance so he can hear if it moves. Rhodey’s bots peer out and start exploring as Rhodey finishes putting everything away. He hooks up their chargers under the bed, near the nest they’ve set up, and sat at the desk when he considers himself done.

He phone buzzed as he watched Sweetheart climb up to the window to peer outside.

_Milliondollerbaby: yo, whatup im in a new house_

“Huh,” Rhodey mutters. What a coincidence.

_Rocketman: yo, me too. How’s urs_

_Milliondollerbaby: epic, im in the basement, by choice, bc theres a sweet entertainment system and a pinball machine and the other side has a nice selection of tools._

_Rocketman: nice, i got a room i share with another dude and a bathroom that smells like socks_

Which is an understatement, but it’s apt.

_Milliondollerbaby: boo_

Sweetheart motioned quickly and Rhodey went over to see what she wanted him to look at. She points to the tree out back and the treehouse stuck up in it. It looked pretty nice, a little disused. Rhodey got the feeling that Mickey is too busy masturbating and wallowing in his own filth to ever use it and got the idea to make that his own very soon.

“Good eye,” Rhodey praises Sweetheart quietly.

_Rocketman: ye but like, a sick treehouse_

It was cool enough to mention, and it made him sound less miserable about the whole situation.

_Milliondollerbaby: sweet_

_Milliondollerbaby: how are the kids_

Rhodey checks on Jason and Peep, who are discussing how Mickey is gross smelling (which said something, because Rhodey didn’t exactly give them noses) and how to torment him to get out of the room.

_Rocketman: they hate the other guy and keep trying to stage some kind of revolution? I’m honestly not sure._

_Milliondollerbaby: lol_

_Rocketman: I’m workign on some new weapons for my suit, my laser tech, I think I’m onto somethgin cool here. I’ll send u some specs soon, k?_

_Milliondollarbaby: im interested_

Rhodey sat at his desk and sends the information along before getting back to work. He wishes he was in his shed instead of this room, where the scene of Febreeze was slowly fading to let the room fill with the stench of oily teenager, and he appreciates it when Sweetheart came over to sit by his computer as he worked.

On impulse, he leaned over to kiss the top of her head before getting back to what he was doing.

In less than a second, Peep was demanding one as well, shaking their fist as if there would be hell to pay without one. Rhodey rolled his eyes and do so, and then Jason sat on his shoulders for the rest of the day.

After a while, he was called to eat dinner. Nice plates of rice, vegetables, and steak. It looked pretty good, so he sat down and started in, complimenting the meal politely.

When Mary spoke next, he had a small break from reality as he just blinked at them, stupefied as he registered the words high and school in a sentence that referenced him. He forgot that he was filling a glass with water and it overflowed before he pulled the pitched back from his cup and cursed, throwing napkins over it.

“I’m sorry?” Rhodey said, trying to sound polite because they were eating dinner and saying, ‘What the fuck?’ wasn't an option right now.

“Well,” Mary reasoned. “We’re not here during the day to watch you, and your agent said having a repetitive schedule and something to do, somewhere to go, during the day would benefit you.”

“And you believed her?” Rhodey asked, incredulous.

Hugo frowned at him and Rhodey gave a challenging look back because he wasn’t afraid of some jackass trying to use the ‘parental’ power they pretend to have to get Rhodey to stand down. He gave that man the exact look he gave every terrorist he targeted and was surprised when Theo momentarily looked alarmed. Rhodey relaxed his features and turned back to Mary.

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” he argued calmly. “I’m an MIT graduate. Going to High School at this point is redundant and, to be honest, is just going to make me hate living here more than I already do.”

Mary looked shocked to hear this and Rhodey rolled his eyes, pushing back from the table and standing up. He grabbed his plate as well as his water and went to his room. Rhodey noticed a collection of mismatched socks stuffed between Mickey’s bed and the bedside table and the bottle of lotion on top of it and gagged when he realized what that meant. He quickly darted through the sheets dividing the room to sit at his desk.

“He’s so gross,” Rhodey said to Peep, and Peep told Rhodey to spray him with a hose. “I just might, that slob has no concept of self care!”

So, Rhodey went to school two days later and it was just as terrible as he remembered it. He had skipped a lot of elementary school, and when he went to high school, he was the youngest in his class, not even a pre-teen, to be honest, and he demanded to take a GED only two months into it, unable to bear the agony of sitting through lessons on subjects he already knew. MIT was a blessing, and he met Tony there, which makes it a bright point in his own personal timeline. Being back in a high school classroom just bought flashbacks of trying not to get locked in a locker at ten by boys who were at least seventeen and hated him because he was a smart ass.

That being, he was bored and miserable and angry.

Being bored and miserable and angry, he realized he needed an outlet or he’d stab himself in the neck before the week was up. Which is how he accidentally joined the football team. It was a mistake, he wanted that known, he wasn’t planning on it, but one moment he was considering the sports venue offered and the next thing he knew he was showing up to tryouts. As he does the exercises with everybody else, he has a come to Jesus moment of pure and utter alarm and hopes he didn't get in, because what made him think that playing football was a good idea? He didn't have a fucking clue how sports work!

And suddenly he was on the team. He has a good throwing arm and he was strong, and he can run. This is all in part to his work at the junkyard and his training with the suit, as brief as it had been.

Rhodey stared at the coach and thought, ‘This is how people get concussions. I need to figure out how to not get a concussion. I’m too smart to get a concussion and/or brain damage.’ Which is… kind of a shitty thing to think but he does have priorities and the health of his brain is high on that list, higher than risking his neck at football.

So in the meantime, he worked on a polymer material to put in whatever padding and the helmet they give him. As soon as he got his gear, he took it all home and puts the synthesized material in it. He did manage to get the number 45 jersey, at his request, and became the running back. He researched football, he sort of knew what he was doing.

One day, during class, he got a text. Because he didn't give a shit about anything related to school, and as he was in a blind spot of the teacher, he opens it up.

_Milliondollerbaby: lol, im in fucking high school again_

_Rocketman: me too, but i'm also in football so i got that goin for me_

_Milliondollerbaby: wtf why we hate football what r u a jock ew no stop platypus why_

_Rocketman: i was bored. I went to try outs and got in but i didn’t mean too. Only good thng is it gets me out of the house and is good exercise_

_Millondollerbaby: do you want a concussion? Because that’s how you get a concussion_

_Rocketman: no no i reinvented my helmet so less chance of that_

_Rocketman: i made this shit that pads the helmet better, moved kinda like a gyroscope kinda thing its hard to explain but its cool. It rolls ur head around in the stuff so it doesn’t rattle it_

_Milliondollerbaby: sure jan, but when u get a concussion and cant read bc of docs orders for however many months, don’t come crying to me_

_Rocketman: sure_

_Milliondollarbaby: how are u feelign about a mission this weekend_

Rhodey felt relief ebb through him.

_Rocketman: i’m in_

 

* * *

 

Rhodey finishes his laser swords the day before they plan on going the mission. They’re gorgeous. And as they lay on his desk, Rhodey admires them. They started perfectly straight, like normal swords, but he added circular attachments to the end because it made it blend into the suit better and he liked the range of damage they would give. He made it so they connect at the ends in case he needed to wield both at once, and he tweaked the gauntlets to provide the energy they need to light them up in bright red lasers when he holds them.

To reduce energy consumption, Rhodey dismisses the adjustable part of it. Keeping form and length without a base material took up a lot of energy, so by giving it a base, he cuts energy consumption by more than half. It was perfect and sleek and they even folded up into something like small chakrams, ones about as big as his open hand, with a straight length along the diameter. They connected to the suit along his hips for ease of access too, which was convenient.

As for his foster parents, he simply said he had a sleepover and he turned his suit into its case to walk it out of there undetected, wearing the undersuit under his clothing. Sure, the neck was exposed, but that didn’t matter when he was wearing his hoodie, the one that was his farewell present.

He stored his clothes in his locker at school (his football one, which was fairly accessible despite it being the weekend, which seemed like a security concern) and blasted off once the suit was on.

The ride was, of course, boring, so he used it to practice his maneuvers and he sort of watched youtube videos of people playing Portal.

He met up with Tony, got himself into the right headspace for the mission, and the mission was on. This mission was the debut of his swords, so he took care to be methodical and accurate. He may be okay with committing lethal damage to a human body, but he sure as hell wasn’t okay with decapitating anyone or cutting off any limbs. When he killed with the swords, they were straight through and through, or big ugly cuts on the torso, though he mostly used the swords to destroy weapon caches.

Tony stuck to his tricks and kicks. It was incredible to watch him, though. He was so natural in the suit. He was one with it, the way he moved, fought, reacted, attacked, defended. It was easy and fluid, and Rhodey admired that. He himself was nothing like Tony. He used the suit for its brute force, for its power, for its strength. He didn’t have the grace and finesse that Tony did. He was… he was gorgeous in his suit, god damn gorgeous.

After everything settles, the dirt and the smoke, they spend an hour helping out, moving rubble, helping people get to safer areas in the town, moving injured civilians and the like.

As Tony talks with the civilians, asking what they can do to help before they leave, translated through the suit by JARVIS, Rhodey prowls the area, locating any rats that tried to hide. He finds some and he took them to face the remaining civilians, who show just as little mercy as they did as they ravaged the village.

Rhodey wanted to watch them burn, but it’s close enough.

 

* * *

 

The weeks start blurring together. They go on another mission, and Rhodey has football and school work to do, and he sort of moved into the treehouse out back, at least lab and suit wise, so he’s got a lot on his plate.

And there’s  _Mickey._

Rhodey was doing the dishes in the kitchen, the dishes he had in his room after a few all-nighters, nothing crazy, but he felt responsible enough to clean them himself before putting them away, when Mickey strolls in with all the confidence of a cishet white man, and Rhodey smells him before he even sees him, which is gross as fuck. Mickey walked past him and Rhodey gags, coughing in order to mask that somewhat.

“God, can you go take a shower? God damn!” he blurts out, putting a soapy hand in front of his nose to help face the wave of BO.

“It’s not my day,” Mickey said, shrugging as he grabs an apple from the fruit bowl.

“You smell disgusting,” Rhodey said. “I can’t breathe. When the hell do you take a shower?”

“Y’know, just once a week, usually on Fridays,” Mickey said nonchalantly.

“What the fuck is the matter with you, that’s fucking nasty!” Rhodey snapped.

“James!” Mary said loudly, tone entirely disapproving.

“And you’re just okay with that?” Rhodey demands, whirling around. “He smells like shit and he showers once a week, maybe less! It’s like he never learned basic fucking hygiene!”

“How often do you shower?” Mickey asked, giving him a disdainful look.

“At least once every two days, sometimes once a day,” Rhodey replied.

“What, are you some kinda faggot?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah, actually,” Rhodey said, not letting the slur deter him, wiping his wet hands on his pants. “I’m gay. I’m a ‘faggot.’ You got a problem with that?”

Mickey blinked. “What? But you don’t look like a fag.”

“Okay, and what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Rhodey demanded.

“You know,” Mickey said, and Rhodey did not know, so he crossed his arms, waiting and glaring. “All frilly and shit. You know, like people who wear perfume and girl stuff. You wear, like, normal clothes. And they have that voice, and they hold themselves like girls do.”

“Nope. First off, that’s totally wrong. Gay people wear whatever the fuck they want, just like straight people. We’re not an entire new fucking species that unanimously decided to wear feminine shit, we’re not a god damn hive mind. And just because some people like feminine stuff, and do have ‘the voice’ and hold themselves differently, doesn’t mean everybody does, and there’s nothing wrong with them either. I’m gay, I like wearing jeans and polo shirts. That being said, do you have a problem with me?”

“No, I’m fine with you being gay as long as you don’t hit on me, or whatever!” Mickey hastened.

“I am not even the least bit attracted to you. You absolutely revolt me. You leave crusty spunk covered socks everywhere, you smell like BO, you never clean your room, your sheets have a body stain on them because they’ve never been washed, you’re greasy as a fucking oil spill, and every pair of your underwear has skid marks. Do you even wipe your own ass?”

“That’s gay!”

“No it fuckin’ isn’t, you dumbass! Ugh,” Rhodey gagged, turning away. “I didn’t want confirmation of that. Jesus Christ, you’re so gross. You need to go to some sort of rehab for this, that’s so gross!”

“Hey, I’m not-” Mickey tried to argue, stepping toward him with a scowl on his face, and Rhodey grabbed the sink sprayer, turning on the faucet in a quick motion.

“Get your nasty ass body away from me or I will spray you down!” Rhodey threatened. “Test me, motherfucker!”

Micky moved an inch and Rhodey pressed down on the trigger for the sprayer, unleashing the only water that’s hit that oily teenage body in days. Micky sputtered and stumbled back, slipping on the waller and falling flat on his ass as Rhodey continued to spray him down. There was a lot of shouting following that, and Hugo pulled him away from the sink as Mary helped Micky up again, making sure he didn’t break anything.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy for wanting that nasty weirdo to have basic hygiene skills, but he’s fine for calling me a faggot to my goddamn face?” Rhodey remembers snapping at some point. “He doesn’t even wipe his own ass!”

Needless to say, some rearranging went down and Rhodey was allowed to move his room to the attic, which was a fucking blessing. Sure, he had to sleep on his mattress with nothing underneath, and sure he had to make furniture out of what was taking up space there or use what furniture there was, dusty and damaged as it may be, and sure it was hot, but by Jove, he’s got his own space and it smells like dust instead of a human being who didn't know how to bathe. Besides that, he’s got more space now. His bots and explore as they please, he’s got a few windows to open if it got warm, and a fan to boot, and he can do what he likes as he pleases.

Mickey was never really confronted about being an oily homophobe, not really, but Rhodey thinks the idiot learned to wipe his own ass, which was progress, even as disgusting as it was that  _that_ was all the progress there was.

Less than a week into living out of the attic (which was such a fucking  _relief,_  honestly,) he got a message from Tony that makes his blood run cold.

_Milliondollerbaby: hey im dying_

What.  _What? WHAT?!?!?_  He manages to get his fingers working as he types out;

_Rocketman: what the fuck how_

_Rocketman: Tony what’s wrong, im serious_

Rhodey checks his watch as he waits, seeing nothing causing any change in respiration or pulse or the like, though the output by the arc-reactor is a bit off considering it’s usual standards.

_Milliondollerbaby: palladium poisoning, it’s in the reactor_

Rhodey isn’t breathing. The reactor. It was in the reactor. The most vital part of Tony’s body. The thing that was keeping him alive, keeping shrapnel from filtering in his bloodstream and killing him. Heavy metal poisoning.

_Rocketman: oh my god_

_Milliondollerbaby: i’m doing what i can, but i’ve got like, a few months_

_Rhodey can’t fucking think straight, there’s too much panic in his mind._

_Rocketman: tony oh my god, i’m on my way, fuck_

He stands up and scrambles for his suit, slapping his hand on the latch and getting the suit on as fast as humanly possible. He can fit through the window, even in the suit, and it’s kind of getting dark out, so he’ll be disguised by that enough. He knew that Mary or Hugo won’t bother him because they already had dinner and Rhodey put a lock on that hatch as soon as he was able, so they wouldn’t come in to find him and would leave if he was ignoring him.

He pushes the window open and stalls only when he sees Peep looking up at him.

“I got to go, I’ll be back tomorrow, it’s important, it’s Tony,” he said quickly. “You tell your siblings to be safe and that I’ll be back. I have to go right now!”

Peep salutes and ran off into the attic, ducking under an old bookshelf and vanishing. Rhodey is in flight before he realizes that he’s even left. Tony’s location appears on his HUD and he was pushing the suit to top speed to get there as quickly as he can.

He lands harshly in Tony’s backyard and rips open the hatches down to Tony’s basement room, and spots his best fucking friend in the world sitting on the pull out bed looking miserable.

Rhodey is ashamed to admit that after grabbing onto Tony and demanding some answers, he started yelling because Tony knew about this and didn’t tell him right away and this was bad, this was very bad. Rhodey couldn’t do anything to help him like he had been when Tony was in Afghanistan, manipulating the army through hacking and the like.

And then Tony started crying and shouting that he was just trying to figure it out on his own, and Rhodey felt like absolute shit because he made his sweetheart cry, but this is serious and in the end after they burn themselves out emotionally, Rhodey is sitting with Tony and JARVIS on the ground, rocking his Tony gently and whispering promises and assurances as he tried to think of how to fix the problem.

Rhodey went back to the foster house at something like three or four in the morning. The suit falls to pieces around him as he hits the releases haphazardly, limbs shaking, fighting back tears again.

He breathed and closes his eyes. He breathed and clenches his fists against the dusty wooden floor. He breathed and forced himself to think.

Rhodey hears a hesitant beep and opens his eyes to see Jason scuffing his foot against the ground, looking up at him nervously.

“I’m good,” Rhodey sighed. “But I have some serious stuff to get working on.”

He drags himself over to his computer, completely abandoning his suit as he started pulling up specs and doing some research. JARVIS has synced himself up with Rhodey’s computer to provide what substances they’ve ruled out as alternatives to the palladium core and what he was investigating.

Rhodey studied the arc reactor tirelessly for weeks. He went to school on Mondays and Wednesdays to get his homework, because it’s not like he gives a shit about missing school that he’s already completed. He forced himself to take some time to sleep, exercise, bathe, and eat each day, but then he was back to work. Each football meet was a bore, he was distracted trying to figure out what to do so he just went through the motions and more often than not finds himself tackled or messing something up.

After learning the arc reactor inside and out, what makes it tick, the physics and mechanics of it, the energy rates, and every piece and component, he started trying redesigns and possible core elements. Each one he sends to JARVIS to run it under a model.

Each one is a failure.

Rhodey felt like a sinking ship, each failure a tick on Tony’s clock. He has a breakdown about every three days. It’s not pretty and he is not handling this well at all. He already almost lost Tony once, he does not want to go through it again and lose him for good. His foster parents try to confront him about not going to school. Rhodey locks them out of the attic. They call his social service agent about it too. Rhodey and she argue through the attic hatch door, which he did open for this discussion, but did not lower the ladder for.

“Can you just leave me alone? For god's sake, I’m busy!” Rhodey snapped down at her.

“You’re not going to school, your foster parents are worried about you,” she insists.

“They’ll get over it and it's not like I need to go to school. Besides that, I’m already doing the homework on time. I have this under control, you just need to mind your own goddamn business!”

“You  _are_  my business!”

“No, I am my own business,” Rhodey snarls, jerking a thumb at himself. “I am my own man. I am nobody’s problem but my own. I fix my own problems, I mind my own business, I am capable of complete self reliance. You and the foster family provide me with nothing I can’t achieve by myself except for irritation and expectations that I don’t intend to fulfill.  _Your_  expectations. I am not here to make you feel better about your job, I am not here to thank you from ripping me from a life I built myself separate of the people who chose to use me, I am not here to make you feel fulfilled in your career choice or life because you chose to make children your ‘business’. Find somebody else to do that!

“I am not here to make  _them_  feel better about themselves either! I am not here to join a family I never wanted to be paired with, and I am not here to help them gain a sense of moral superiority for housing the poor black orphan when they could have not done that at all! We both know that I’m only here because it’s the law and I have done my damnedest to distance myself as much from this as I can.

“I am living in an  _attic_ !” Rhodey threw his arms wide. “And it is the best thing to happen to me in  _weeks!”_

Mrs. Miller stared up at him, processing that.

“The bar has never been lower on my quality of life,” Rhodey said. “The highlights consist of living in a junkyard or an attic, which I know sounds like some Harry Potter Cinderella nonsense. Getting some privacy is a miracle. My foster parents letting me live up here so I don’t need to live in the same room as a homophobic human garbage can is a miracle. That should just be basic common sense. ‘Hey, let's not let this well-groomed black gay orphan live in the same room as this white kid who doesn’t know how to bathe or wipe his own ass and, hey, totally called him a faggot to his face the other day.’ Just- I’m sick of you all pretending to care. Because you don’t. If you did, you’d listen, you’d compromise, you’d bend rules to let me be happy where I am. You’d try to understand. And you don’t. So I’m going to stay up here, I am going to live on my own terms up here, I will do what I think is necessary, and you will all leave me the hell alone.”

Rhodey started to push the hatch over the entrance again.

“James-”

“And that’s another thing!” Rhodey said, cutting her off and stopping to lean down through the entrance. “I don’t go by James! The only people who called me James was my parents, and I have never given people permission to use my name like they did! None of you even thought to ask what I wanted to be called, or even if I had a nickname! My name is Rhodey!”

Rhodey shut the hatch and went back to his desk.

They didn’t bother him about it again.

Rhodey keeps working. He tried mixing metals, he tried redesigning the arc reactor from the outside in and inside out. It didn't work. Nothing worked. They’ve got nothing. Nothing viable. He was so frustrated, and upset, and scared all the time that he can hardly sleep at night.

It went that way for three months before he finally got something from Tony.

“Rhodey.” Rhodey sat up from where he was hunched over on his desk, staring at another failed simulation, and brings the ring the voice came from up to hear better. “I think I have something,” Tony said.

Relief hits him like a truck, making him lean back, wind driven out of him. “What? For real? Oh, thank fuck, gimme what you got,” Rhodey urges, waiting for Tony.

“How do you feel about a little field trip? We’re going to have to be low key about this. We can bring the suits, but we’ll have to avoid them unless, like, it’s life or death.”

“I’m in,” Rhodey said without a pause, not even thinking twice. “Give me a place and time.”

Tony does. And Rhodey started planning.

 

* * *

 

His foster parents are uneasy around him in the first place, so when he said he was selected for a trip across the country, all expenses paid for in advance, they don’t even ask him to prove it. Nothing at all. They don’t ask where, they don’t ask why, they don’t bring up anything about the situation. They’re more than happy to see him out the door to the cab with his backpack and suit-suitcase all folded up.

Rhodey instructed his bots to keep quiet but they were free to do what they liked, playing games, reading on his tablet, anything they liked. He wishes he didn’t have to leave them behind, but they’re capable and he trusts them.

He was driven to the airport, directed to a Stark owned jet on the runway, and is treated to first class bliss. He eats a delicious lunch, to which he thanks the stewardess and advises her to thank the cook, and sips Canadian Dry. His seat is comfortable and he can stretch his legs, relaxing back in the near silent cabin, listening to his music over his headphones. The nerves of the past months bleeding away. They’re still there in the back of his mind, but knowing they have something, something viable, something that just needed a little elbow grease, he felt worlds better. Besides that, he was going to see  _Tony_. For way more than a day, or just a night. He shouldn’t feel as happy as he does at that.

He lands and is escorted from the jet to the next cab, which took him to the hotel Tony booked. He went up to the floor and room Tony directed him to and knocks on the door.

Tony answers it and Rhodey barely got out a greeting before Tony is bustling him about. He ditches most of his stuff on the bed, but Tony shoves him in the bathroom to wash up, stating that he smelled like airplane and dust. Which made sense considering airplane and attic.

As Rhodey took a shower, using fancy body and hair wash Tony provided, and Tony washed himself outside of the shower, just sticking a washcloth under the spray Rhodey was using before withdrawing. It was kind of odd to think of Tony nude just outside the shower curtain, but whatever worked for Tony was fine with Rhodey. They dressed in some of their nicer clothes when that was done, and Tony shoved him out the door to get further pampered.

Haircut, suit fittings, it all felt so  _expensive_  and Rhodey loved spending the time with Tony. He did manage to get Tony to explain exactly what he found and what their plan was, which made him feel better about the reasonings behind getting all dressed up, but it was still a busy day.

After they were all set, Rhodey found himself in black dress pants, a light grey button-up, and a neat suit jacket without a tie. He felt nice. He felt classy, and when he glanced at Tony in his choice outfit, he really liked how they matched. Tony was dressed in a black skirt, grey leggings that matched Rhodey’s shirt, a white blouse that exposed his shoulders with a cute ribbon that wrapped around the back on his neck to support it, and a neat black jacket. God damn gorgeous.

He looked so fucking cute it made Rhodey… not angry, indignant, maybe. Tony was so cute Rhodey wanted to die.

They went to Stark Industries HQ with some supplies. Tony had purchased a purse for himself and a nice grey satchel for Rhodey, in which he put one of his swords, his laptop, his phone, a water bottle, his wallet, and a USB. The sword was tricky. He usually needed a gauntlet connected to an arc reactor to power it, but as he cut energy consumption for the laser in the first place, one of his old laser batteries, one of the ones he used at the junkyard to cut away metal, if only for a few minutes, would work fine in the meantime.

Tony brought a purse with his wallet, his access pass, a replacement palladium chip just in case, his phone, and a set of scanners. He was wearing his vambraces, which were inconspicuously wired to his arc. Partially hidden by his sleeves, they really did just look like jewelry. Thick gold bracelets, sure, but rich people are eccentric and wear weird jewelry all the time.

“Okay,” Tony said as they entered the building, looping his arm with Rhodey’s and Rhodey was struck by the feeling of escorting his friend. “So, first we go to Obie’s office, we’ll be able to find out where Howards stuff from the Expo is stored, then we can find the model. We’ll be able to- hang on, security, I’ll get us by.”

Rhodey nodded in understanding. Perfectly reasonable straightforward plan. In and out as quickly as possible.

Tony and Rhodey approached the security checkpoint and Tony flashed his pass. The security guard took it to run it through the scanner, and looked shocked and flustered moments later, hastening to hand it back. “Oh, Mister Stark, we didn’t know you were visiting-”

“It’s fine, I’m here to check in on R&D and some projects, didn’t exactly call ahead to, y’know, make an appointment in my own building,” Tony said and flashed a brilliant and fake smile. Rhodey knew how to notice it, though it looked real from the outside.

“Well, you go on ahead,” the guard insisted. “Have a nice day.”

“Thank you, darling,” Tony said, and hearing Tony use pet names with other people was unsettling, but Rhodey knew he didn’t mean it. Tony quickly pulled Rhodey past them and they headed down the hall.

“Okay,” Tony continued. “Obie’s office is on one of the upper floors, in management. He’s the acting CEO.”

Rhodey grimaced. “I don’t like him.” He just… rubbed Rhodey the wrong way, like all the foster parents and their superficial reasonings for housing him.

“Me neither,” Tony agreed. “But his office should be an information treasure trove. I don’t want him getting wind of this, he could make some pretty terrible weapons if he decided to look into the arc-reactor in any fashion, and if my hunch is right, whatever we get out of this will improve the arc-reactor in general, the energy output, efficiency, etc.”

“Well, only one way to go then, up,” Rhodey agreed and motioned to the one ahead. “That it?”

“Yeah, private elevator to the top floors,” Tony confirmed, and pulled Rhodey toward it.

Once they were on board, Tony entered his passcode and the elevator started moving, bringing them up. They reach the floor the CEO’s office resided on, and quickly got off the elevator and started down the hall.

The whole facility was sleek and sterile, extravagant in a minimalist way, with plenty of glass and metal and white light. It felt like stepping into the future, yet managed to keep a professional and friendly appeal. The office entryway was empty, except for a secretary working at her desk in the open office. There was another desk across from her, but it was empty and didn’t look like it was being used.

She noticed them and straightened from her work. “Mr. Stane isn’t in right now, you can schedule an appointment-” she started.

“Hang on, darling, we’re not here to see Obie,” Tony cut her off. “The name’s Tony Stark, it’s on the side of the building.” He showed her his access pass and his ID. She looked at them and tried to figure out what to do.

“Oh, um…” she glanced at Tony and his outfit and then said, “Doctor Stark, what can I do for you?”

Rhodey was impressed. He was about to say something if she commented on his outfit or gender, but it seemed like it wasn’t needed.

“Oh, I like you, you’re sharp,” Tony remarked, and he looked pleased too. “I just need to access some project files on Obie’s computer. We won’t take long.”

“Well, okay, sure,” she replied, reluctantly. “But please don’t break anything.”

“Sure thing, Miss Potts,” Tony replied. Conversation over, Rhodey pulled him on, pushing the door open and letting Tony enter first before closing them tight behind them.

“Okay, let’s find the model and get out of here,” Rhodey said. “What do we have to do?”

Tony pulled away from him and quickly stepped over to the desk, sitting and tapping at the keyboard before holding out his hands toward Rhodey. Taking his place at Rhodey’s shoulder, he shoved his hand in his satchel and then handed Tony the flash drive.

Rhodey watched the screen as the flash drive helped JARVIS hack into the computer to get past the security. Pretty neat. JARVIS was pretty hot stuff. Rhodey and Tony started looking through some of the expo files. It wasn’t long before they found where the old model Tony was after was being stored, but JARVIS found a ghost file and brought it up on the screen, just waiting for Tony to select it for review.

Tony and Rhodey looked at each other.

“What the hell does he have in a ghost file?” Rhodey asked, a little dread in his stomach.

“I’m scared to find out,” Tony replied and clicked on it. The first two files seemed familiar, but it wasn’t anything alarming. Not until- “Shit, look, a Jericho, that’s where we went last month, the dates line up,” Rhodey said, pointing at the screen. He recognized it because he was the one to destroy it. He remembers cutting through the serial number painted on the side with his sword, remembered a couple digits, enough to match up.

“Oh, son of a bitch,” Tony growled. “Is  _Obie_  the leak? Shit, fuck, he, goddammit, what the fuck-!”

The third file made Rhodey’s breath catch in his throat, paling.

“That’s… that’s my armor,” Tony said, sounding scared and far away. “Those are updated blueprints of the armor I used to escape. Oh, god, why does he have this?”

The next file opened, likely JARVIS’s doing, and Rhodey found himself starting as Ten Rings terrorists read a list of demands, circled around a hostage with a bag over his head. They yanked the sack off the head of the hostage and Rhodey cursed.

“Howard,” Tony whispered, and he looked frozen. Rhodey wanted to understand, so he reached over and typed in the command to translate what they were saying.

_“You did not tell us the target we were paid to kill was the great Howard Stark. As you can see, Obadiah Stane, your deception and lies will cost you dearly. The price to kill Howard Stark has just gone up.”_

“Oh god,” Rhodey said, alarmed, fight or flight and adrenaline kicking in. “Oh, fuck, Tony.”

Tony was still frozen. He didn't seem to be registering anything. He looked pale and scared, so Rhodey forced himself to take matters into his own hand. Rhodey started typing away at the keyboard, starting a download. “JARVIS can’t get these out himself with just an access point, I’m putting it on the flash.” It would erase all the data and the hacking program in it, but it would get them what they needed.

He looked down at Tony, who was still silent and lost, so unlike him, so Rhodey put his hand on Tony’s shoulder and squeezed, making him feel the pressure and warmth. “Stay with me, Tones.”

The door swung open and Rhodey’s gaze shot up to see Stane, the man who did this, who did this to Tony, who almost had him killed. It was a struggle to not pull his sword out that moment and stuff it through his stomach.

“Tony, what a pleasant surprise,” Obie said with a fake smile that sent shivers up Rhodey’s spine. Tony was still frozen, so Rhodey leaned down.

“Media face, media face,” Rhodey whispered urgently, and Tony’s face changed immediately.

Tony smiled, all coy and mischievous and bright eyed in an instant. “You know how it is, I love making an entrance and the RSVP is so last season. It’s been a while, you look nice,” Tony said, wiggling his fingers in Stane’s direction. “Who are you wearing?”

Stane chuckled. “Nobody special, I suppose,” Stane said as he strode over, making a stop at the drinks cart a few feet away. Tony clicked something as Stane poured himself a glass and the screen started a screensaver. Rhodey shifted to lean against the desk and bright the newspaper beside the computer to cover the flash drive.

“What are you two kids doin’ here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be, y’know, at your foster homes? I heard you got placed somewhere new recently,” Stane said to Tony.

“We both did, actually,” Rhodey answered for him. “Tony wanted to check up on what R&D was doing and get some old data from Howard’s Expo days. Said he had some ideas. He asked me to tag along. Thought it might be fun to get out and about.”

Obie hummed and rounded the desk to look at the screen briefly before going back to them.

“Seems reasonable. If you want, I can give you a tour of the R&D levels. They’ve got some pretty interesting automatics being tested today.”

Rhodey would rather stab him right now. It would be interesting to watch him bleed out. That was sort of violent. Rhodey had never wanted to kill someone as much as he does right now. It was a little concerning but entirely justified.

“We have to pass,” Tony said regretfully, even adding a little forlorn sigh. “We made plans already, didn’t intend on sticking here long. They’re having a fashion show in the city, and you know how much I love going to those.”

Nice. Okay, Rhodey can run with that. He likes fashion shows. Sometimes they don’t make much sense, but occasionally they have really nice designs that Tony likes to fawn over.

“That I do,” Obie agreed. “Y’know, I’m glad to see you again, like this, all put together. I was worried that, well, you might have left some of yourself behind in those caves.”

Anger flashed up his spine and his cheeks felt hot with rage, but he keeps himself cool.

“I think it’s pretty safe to say that not even a shitty trip to the Middle East can stop me,” Tony stated and Rhodey felt so damn proud of the resolute tone. That was all Tony, right there.

“Well,” Obadiah said. “They always said you were a stubborn little bugger.”

“We better get going, Tones,” Rhodey interrupted because there was only so much they could do to stall. “Or the show is going to start before we get there, and we’ve got to get to our seats before the models take to the stage.”

“Right,” Tony agreed. “Sorry we have to ditch you so soon, but the runway waits for no man.” Tony stands and moves into the perfect position for Rhodey to quickly grab the paper and pull the flash drive from the USB port, then folding the paper up and tucking it under his arm.

“I understand,” Obie agrees as Tony stood in front of him, Rhodey rounding along the side. “But you should come around more often, maybe give some of our hot shots some tips and pointers.”

Tony smiled in reply and took Rhodey’s offered arm, both of them walking away calmly. “Bye, Obie, see you!” Tony waved over his shoulder and they almost made it to the door.

“Is that today’s paper?” Stane asked.

Rhodey froze and forced himself to turn calmly, glancing at the date in a way that seemed absent, trying to shift the flash drive. “Uh, yeah.” Stane walked over and Rhodey held it out to Tony, showing the flash drive so that Tony got the cue to take it to grab the flash and hide it. “I saw an article I thought looked interesting.”

“Do you mind leaving it? Puzzle,” Stane explained, motioning to the crossword.

“Sure, I’ll just find it online later, I guess,” Rhodey replied and handed it to Tony, who took the paper and let the flash drive slip into his jacket sleeve, palm up as Stane took the newspaper. Rhodey watched Stane look at their hands and then back to the paper.

“Thanks.” Stane smiled. “You kids have fun now.”

“We will,” Tony assured and they finally slipped out the door. That was way too fucking close, Rhodey thought.

Tony pulled his arm back to get to his purse, where he dropped the flash drive. They pass Miss Potts, who watched them leave, a bit concerned. “Thanks,” Tony said to her as they pass, smiling tensely.

“Have a good day, Doctor Stark,” Miss Potts replied.

They pushed through the next pair of doors and started down the hall.

“We need to get the fuck out of here right now,” Rhodey said urgently, gripping Tony’s arm tightly. This was way too dangerous for not having their suits. Stane was really dangerous. He had terrorists try to kill Howard and Tony, he was selling Stark weapons, he had another  _suit._

“We need the scans,” Tony said dully. “We came for the scans, I don’t want to die, we need to get the scans first and then we need to fucking leave.”

“Right, right, stairs, go,” Rhodey pushed him toward them.

“Sub basement two,” Tony recited as they closed the door behind them, and Rhodey looked over the edge. It was a long way down, that was a lot of time wasted. Stane could catch up to them if they weren’t quick. Stane, who had access to guns and clearly had no qualm with killing literal teenagers.

“Fuck, if only we had out undersuits or something, I didn’t expect this, god fucking dammit,” Rhodey growled.

“Do you think I expected this?” Tony snapped back, grabbing his hand and starting them down the stairs two at a time, which almost overbalanced Rhodey before he corrected.

“Of course not,” Rhodey assured. “But this isn’t good, he’s in this fucking building with us and he’ll know that we downloaded the ghost drive. Tony, you cannot go back to your foster house, it’s not safe, he will find you and he’ll kill you, I don’t even have a little bit of doubt in my mind. We need to figure something out right now.”

“Repulsors,” Tony said in realization, jarring to a stop, which almost made Rhodey fall again. “I have my gauntlets.” Tony grabbed his phone and brought it up to his ear. “JARVIS, cover our tracks.” Tony hung up and turned to him. “Rhodey grab on.”

Rhodey bear hugged him, over the shoulders for a better grip and waited, clenching his eyes closed and waiting.

He heard the sound of the repulsors, Tony’s muscles locking, and he felt them rising up, then dropping very quickly. Rhodey wrapped his legs around Tony’s and hoped for the best.

“What about the footage?” Rhodey asked after a second because this wasn't exactly subtle.

“JARVIS can hack the security, it’s not encrypted like the CEO server’s are and Stane already knows. There’s no way he doesn’t. He has an armor, he knows where it’s from, he knows how I escaped and he’s seeing two figures in metal armor fuck his business, he knows who we are.”

Rhodey growled, anger burning up at the thought of that man. They started slowing in the air and Tony abruptly pulled them off to where they needed to be. Rhodey opened his eyes and dropped, helping Tony get steady again as he shook out his arms.

He looked around and spotted the door, motioning Tony on. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

They pushed past the door into the storage area and Rhodey pointedly ignored everything around him as he looked for the section the model was in, counting rows and noting signs listing sections and subsections until he finally found the right one, Tony right behind him.

They came upon the model at long last and Tony fumbled to pull out the scanners, dropping one as his hands shook. Rhodey grabbed it and got into position, holding it up. Tony took the other and they switched them on, watching the hologram copy the shrubbery, buildings, the waffle stands, everything. Once the hologram disappeared, Rhodey tossed the scanner back to Tony.

They heard a door close loudly and froze, looking in the direction they came from.

“Oh, Tony,” Stand said in a sing-song voice. “I believe you took something of mine.”

Oh, shit.

“Service elevator,” Tony said quickly and rounded the table to grab Rhodey’s wrist, pulling him on again. “Come on.”

Running probably wasn’t the best idea, but they had to get out of there quick. As soon as he knew exactly where the elevator was, Rhodey took the lead to make sure there wasn’t a threat ahead. That didn’t stop him from skidding to a halt and whirling around when he heard a shot and Tony cry out in pain. Tony went down with a harsh thud and pressed his hand to his side, panting. The undersuits really would be helpful, especially right now. Bullets were nothing, but not right now. Rhodey grabbed Tony and pulled him up to start running again. He looked around for anything that could act as cover and ducked behind a shelf full of metal parts, Tony with him.

“Ow, fuck,” Tony said as he stood with Rhodey.

“I got you, I got you, we’re fine,” Rhodey reassured. “Let’s just keep moving.”

“Yeah. Fuck, I really liked this top.”

That’s just shock talking, Rhodey thought, but quickly snapped, “Focus!”

“Now, now,” Stane's voice came, and it was cold and damn frightening, ominous in the dead silence, cutting in its tone. “I just want to have a little chat.”

He was just to their right, he was turning the corner and would see them unless-

Rhodey shoved Tony forward, so he stumbled behind a support column, and Rhodey presses his own back to the one besides Tony’s. Tony turns, confused, but got with the program and keeps still and hidden. Rhodey peers around the corner, scanning for an opportunity to do something, to do anything, and then spotted it. He got Tony’s attention and brings his ring up to his lips. Tony brings his hand up

“How important is that thing?” Rhodey whispered, and motioned to the model airplane held up by the line attached to Rhodey’s column.

“Not,” Tony replied and Rhodey pulled his hand out of his bag, taking his sword out, adjusting his grip, and when he was prepared, had his motion all planned out, he activated it. It extended in less than a second and red burst along it. Rhodey spun and swung the blade as fast and strong as he could, slicing cleanly through the concrete support and through wire keeping the airplane up.

Stane looked up as the thing groaned and scrambled out of the way as it shattered on the ground.

“Run!” Rhodey snapped, and they bolted like there were hellhounds on their heels. He could hear Stane start to chase after them again, but he didn’t hear any shots and Tony was right behind him, so he focused on getting there. Rhodey got to the elevator first and slapped his hand against the call button, looking back at Tony as he caught up. The doors opened and they both tumbled inside. Rhodey glanced up to spot Stane around a corner, gun up and aimed at them. Tony and Rhodey hit buttons on the elevator pad in a rush as several shots rang out.

Something sharp and hot hit Rhodey’s elbow, and he bit back a cry of pain as the door took two more bullets as the third shattered the window of the elevator. Rhodey ducked against the spray of glass as the elevator moved and they were finally out of range.

“Fuck, are you okay?” Rhodey asked, grabbing at Tony to check him out. He pulled up his arm to look at the bleeding wound on his side. It looked bad, but it was just a graze.

“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” Tony said, which is probably a lie. “It feels like a scrape, are you okay?”

“It’s… just a graze. I’m fine.”

“Fuck, Rhodey!” Tony hissed, grabbing at him and looking for where the bullet hit him. “Thank god Stane is a shit shot. Shit, okay, that's fine, we just need to leave.”

Tony dug in his purse and pulled out his phone, bringing it up. Rhodey busied himself with putting his sword away, it had deactivated as they ran, but it needed to be folded up and stored again. “We need a way out ASAP, give me what you’ve got… Loyalties?... Get us the man, thanks,” Tony said.

Tony hung up and stuffed his phone back in his purse, helping Rhodey stand up as the pair nervously waited for the doors to open again. Tony reached over and grabbed Rhodey’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Rhodey looked over and saw that Tony wasn’t looking at him, so he gave Tony’s hand a reassuring squeeze, hoping it helped. It hurt a bit, because that was the arm that was actively bleeding, but he didn’t care.

The doors opened and they reached the parking garage, running past a bunch of company cars before spotting a black car was pulling in. It slowed when it saw them and stopped a second later. Tony grabbed the backseat door and yanked it open, crawling in, and Rhodey followed in after him, as clumsy as it all was.

“Step on it, go!” Tony demanded.

“Go where?” the driver asked, turning to peer at them, confused.

“Far,” Rhodey said, thinking ‘ _does it matter?_ ’ “Just start driving!”

“Malibu Point,” Tony rushed out, and finally the car moved.

“What?” Rhodey asked, shooting Tony a confused look.

“We have… a house there,” Tony said. “Howard wanted to be closer to Stark Industries HQ in Malibu, so he had a house built, but he, y’know. So it’s built, and it’s mine. We can stay there. It should be furnished somewhat. It’ll be safe.”

Oh. Well. Huh. House.  _House?_  “Okay, yeah, fine. We’ll stay there for now.”

Is he going to play house with Tony? That sounds kinda nice. “Oh, fuck, I’m getting blood all over the seat,” Rhodey noticed, trying to wipe it off with his sleeve, then feeling guilty for ruining a new suit, not like that was his fault though. “Hey, uh-” Rhodey looked at the guy, spotting an ID on his suit pocket. “Hogan, right? You got any paper towels or something?”

“Why are you bleeding in my car?” Hogan asked, but reached into the glove compartment to toss back a travel pack of tissues. Rhodey wiped off the blood before shoving a few tissues at Tony and pressing the rest against his elbow.

“Um,” Tony said. “Hogan, you’re getting a promotion to my personal driver. I will pay a hundred dollars more per hour for you to not ever speak to or drive Stane around ever again, along with a ten thousand dollar initial paycheck.”

Harold blinked at the rearview mirror. “Okay. Uh. I can… do that. Oh, boy, what did I just get myself into?”

A mess, Rhodey thought. A whole messy messy mess of messes. This wasn't supposed to happen.

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Tony said. “Just keep driving.”

 

* * *

 

Tony failed to mention that the house was actually a mansion, a gorgeous sleek modern piece of art made of more circles than corners, and god damn, it was like being in a museum, architecture wise. Everything was fresh and stylish, artistically positioned and organizes. The air smelled like dust, but it was still nice despite the time it sat, empty. Tony located a first aid kit to patch up their bullet grazes after he sent Hogan off pretty much immediately to get their stuff.

“Okay,” Tony said as they worked on each other on the couch. “So the good news is that we should be safe. And we have the model scan. And we have a stocked workshop under the house we can work out of. And Hogan is going to get our stuff from the hotel, and we’ll get our armors here. The bad news is that Stane is trying to kill us and he’s behind the weapons in Afghanistan. And he has an armor.”

“Yeah, that’s  _really not good,_ ” Rhodey said, pressing the adhesive of the bandage to the skin around the graze on Tony’s side. He’d disinfected it and everything, but seeing red spot there once the bandage was placed made a twinge of worry go through him anyway.

“But it should be an easy fix,” Tony insisted. “We sabotage or steal his suit and then get what we came from the Stark servers to drop to the FBI, CIA, or SHIELD, or something. Um. Right?”

“It resembles a plan,” Rhodey agrees, and scratches his head, and tried to figure out their priorities. “Um. Okay. So. Let’s… do the thing, with your scans, right? Let's see if whatever your dad got can help us save you.”

Tony nodded and together they went down to the lab. Rhodey really was curious to see what the place had lab-wise, and he wasn't disappointed. In fact, his jaw dropped. It was big and open with all the tech he could ever ask for. Clean worktables, plenty of space, tools, beautiful new gleaming tools and equipment. There was a row of fancy cars against the garage entrance, gorgeous, well taken care of cars. It was everything Rhodey could have ever wanted in a workspace.

Rhodey watched Tony swipe a finger over the dust that settled on the nearest desk and then looked at him.

“Gross,” Rhodey offered and Tony nodded.

“JARVIS, pull up the scans, please. I want all your little goodies up on a projection,” Tony said promptly and it appeared. JARVIS must be routing through Tony’s phone or something. It was pretty impressive. The model was as it had been, and Rhodey looked at it, trying to see what he thought was there, what he hoped was there, some sort of answer.

“How many buildings are there?” Tony asked after a moment.

“Should I include the Belgium waffle stands?” JARVIS asked dryly.

“Dad’s fucking thing with those fucking waffles,” Tony muttered. “He was like the Leslie Knope of those fucking things. Just show them to me please.”

Rhodey snorted at Tony’s comment and paid attention as JARVIS makes a few edits.

Rhodey looked, and thought, and looked again. There were only so many things it could be. It had to be some sort of blueprint, some sort of design that could be copied elsewhere, so he just had to find what to look at to bring it into view. It kind of...

“It kinda looks like an atom,” Rhodey remarks as it hits him.

“If that’s so, the nucleus would be... here.” Tony pointed at the globe in the middle of the thing. “Highlight the unisphere.” Tony took the highlighted ball expanded it so it was about the size of one of a small basketball, maybe smaller. “Lose the walkways, they’re irrelevant.” He swatted them away.

“What are you trying to do with this, sirs?”

“We’re rediscovering a new element, probably. Lose the leafy green things that go outside.”

Rhodey paused and shot an incredulous look at the friend. “The… shrubbery and trees?” Tony may not get out a lot, but that’s pretty weird, even for him.

“Yeah, those.”

“You need to go outside more,” Rhodey told him.

“We literally go out to beat up terrorists,” Tony deadpanned.

“I think the fact that you had difficulty remembering the name for those things proves that you need to get outside more, despite our missions to Afghanistan.”

“I can do that when I’m not dying.” Tony started swatting things off the projection left and right. “Parking lots, exits, entrances.”

Rhodey looked at the model. “What if we structured the protons and the neutrons using the pavilions as, like, a frame? Right, do you see that?” Rhodey pointed and Tony watched him.

“Yeah, year, if we just…” Tony flicked away some extraneous parts and Rhodey joined him. After a minute of clearing away more fluff and unimportant buildings, JARVIS took over. He spins it and worked over it, clearly noting what they have as well, using their words and notations to guide himself. What they’re left with is nothing short of extraordinary. A perfect atom, a gorgeous sphere of blue dotted with shining lights. Tony took the shape in his hands, holding it, and Rhodey scoots closer to look, practically putting his head on Tony’s shoulder.

Tony glanced at Rhodey, as if asking something, and Rhodey nods, watching Tony throw his hands wide, making that atom fifty times its original size, surrounding them like the world's best blanket fort. Tony looked at it and laughed and Rhodey loved the laugh so much that he hugs Tony tightly to him.

“We did it!” Rhodey cheers, laughter and tears in his voice and Tony clings to him. Rhodey is so relieved and happy that he picks the smaller teen up and swings him around. He was so light and adorable and tiny, Rhodey could never get enough of him. Rhodey slowed them to a stop, but he can’t make himself let Tony go, not when he was so warm and comfortable and fits right against him like this.

Tony wiggles his arms out enough to reach up and collapse the projection into a small glowing blue. He brings his hands down so the atom is between them.

“The proposed element should serve as a viable replacement for palladium,” JARVIS said, sounding relieved. “But it is impossible to synthesize.”

“Uh-huh,” Rhodey said, starting to grin. “That sounds like quitter talk, what do you think Tony?”

Tony smiles and wraps his arms around Rhodey’s neck. “I think I hear a challenge when I hear one.”

Rhodey grins and hugs Tony as hard as he can. After they move over to the pretty much brand new couch, Tony and Rhodey start talking prismatic accelerators, ordering what they need to arrive as soon as possible. Hogan arrives a bit later, and Tony went up to meet him to collect it, Rhodey waiting in the lab to let him back in in a bit.

Tony came back struggling to carry both of their suits and the JARVIS Box. They set up JARVIS up first, getting him settled in the security systems by wiring the JARVIS box into it, letting him start working surveillance and general control of the house and all connected equipment. Having the arc-reactor hooked up to the system also let JARVIS project his hard light form so he could walk around with theme in his most physical form. More power did wonders for JARVIS’s systems.

They put their suits in the lab before taking their personal possessions to the biggest room. After they figured everything was set, Tony canceled the hotel reservations and they settled on the lab couch again. Going over what they need to get and do is fun, they’re able to plan out the whole thing and have time to spare. They can work together just like they did back at MIT.

Tony lets Rhodey play his music with his own and Rhodey didn't think anything can sound better than rock and roll mixed with love songs.

Rhodey listens to the first bar of the next song that came on as he worked and took some initiative, noticing the slight frown on Tony’s face as he worked. Rhodey figured he needed to take a break, and so did Tony, so he just went for it.

 _“It's amazing the time that it's taken for you to come out here~. I don't know what you do in the~re,”_  he sings, nodding his head to the beat, and he noticed Tony glance over.  _“Only so many ways you can change how light will hit your face, or how you can fix your hair.”_ Rhodey mimes doing something with his hair and grins at Tony.  _“You only got two eyes, two lips, so why-?”_

Rhodey throws his hands in the air, as if exasperated. _“It shouldn't really take long at all! But when you finally smile cause it's just right...!”_  Rhodey sings Tony, watching Tony shift to watch and listen better, a small amused smile on his lips and bright eyes following him.

 _“Damn, you look beautiful,”_  Rhodey breathed.

Tony presses a hand against his mouth, flushing a bit but still smiling.

Rhodey stands and puts his hands in the air, dancing to the beat as best he can without making it look too stupid. _“You take forever- ever- ever- ever~! But you're always worth waiting for! You take forever- ever- ever- ever~…”_  Rhodey shrugs.  _“I guess I'll wait a little more. Now, I know it's time~ I realize~ I’mma be waiting half my life- yeah- !”_ Rhodey sings, not minding the meaning behind his words.  _“With my back up against the door!”_

Rhodey presses his back against the table Tony was working at, sliding down to sit with his knees up to his chest.

 _“Cause you take forever- ever- ever- ever- ever- ever- ever…”_ He muses, and then he looked up at Tony grabbing Tony’s hand to hold between his own.  _“But you're always worth waiting for.”_

“You’re gonna make me fucking cry,” Tony said, voice wavering, eyes watering, but they’re happy tears and they both know it. “Asshole.”

Rhodey laughed and kept singing.  _“And you lie through your teeth when you try to convince me that you'll be~! That you'll be out in less than five! ‘Cause we both know that the only way you will ever leave... is if we set the whole place on fire! You already said- you- had- the- per~fect dress,”_  Rhodey complains, throwing his hands up.  _“So why you gotta try ‘em all? No matter how late it gets, I must confess… Damn, you look beautiful!”_

“Thank you,” Tony whispers.

 _“You take forever- ever- ever- ever…”_ Rhodey notes.  _“But you're always worth waiting for. You take forever- ever- ever- ever… I guess I'll wait a little more. Now, I know it's time~ I realize~ I will be spending half my life~ yeah~! With my back up against the door!”_  Rhodey shrugs, not caring about that fact.  _“Cause you take forever- ever- ever- ever- ever- ever- ever… But you're always worth waiting for.”_

Rhodey took another initiative and stands up to pull Tony out of his seat, taking his hands and starting a lazy dance, nice and easy back and forth. “ _You take forever, ever, ever, ever… I guess I'll wait a little more.”_  Rhodey hums along to the music for a bit, just swaying them along the floor as the music turns to vocalization and Tony felt like his chest could just burst.

 _“Guess I’ll wait a little more,”_  Rhodey finishes, and trails off, looking and waiting for Tony’s reaction.

“I like you a whole lot,” Tony tells him, smiling so wide Rhodey can’t stand it and Tony got up on his tippy toes to kiss the tip of his nose and Rhodey hugs him close.

They eat some food and get tired enough to go to bed. For some reason, neither of them protest or bring up the fact that they’re deliberately going to sleep in the same bed. If Tony had, Rhodey would argue for safety. But he didn't. So Rhodey didn't. Maybe it didn't have to be that complicated.

Biting his lip as he considers his phone, trying to decide whether or not to call. He was going to be in California longer than he initially expected, what with building a particle accelerator and creating a new element. Sighing, Rhodey dials his foster parents' number and waits for an answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to tell you that, uh, out flight got pushed back a few more days so I may be gone longer than expected,” he lied.

“Oh, okay. That’s, um fine. Did something happen, or…?”

“No, everything’s fine. I’m enjoying it so far, just some complications with flight plans. I’ll call to tell you when I expect to come back when I get official word.”

“That’s good. Um. Okay, well. Stay safe. Have fun. Don’t get into trouble.”

“Not that I was planning on it, but okay,” Rhodey agreed. “Bye.”

“Goodbye.”

That was the worst. It was super awkward and he hated that. Rhodey groans and collapses into the bed feeling really nice soft sheets and blankets.

“Aw, pookie,” Tony said sympathetically, patting his back. Rhodey liked the contact and soft motion. It was very reassuring.

Rhodey groaned again. “They’re not- they’re not bad people. They just don’t… they don’t connect with me. This trip is probably a  _relief._ ”

“Aw,  _pookie,_ ” Tony said, stressing his sympathy to a point that just sounds funny, now rubbing along Rhodey’s spine.

“I just feel bad lying to them,” Rhodey said. “But, like, it’s not their business. But I still feel bad!”

“Massage?” Tony asked and started gently karate chopping Rhodey’s back, which just makes Rhodey laugh, remembering seeing the vine when the bots were watching compilations. Rhodey felt himself being hauled up and went with Tony’s motions, crawling under the warm comforter.

“Night, JARVIS!” Tony called out.

“Night, J!” Rhodey said with a glance to the nearest camera

“Good night, sirs. Would you like me to play anything?”

Tony and Rhodey exchanged a look. Rhodey thought about it and then offered, “Moonlight Sonata?”

“Ooh! A classic. I like your taste,” Tony replied, putting a soft hand on his shoulder briefly. The soft music started up, melodic piano keys in the dark as the lights slowly turn off. The arc-reactor cuts through the darkness and Rhodey stared at it.

Tony sleeps flat on his back. He never used to do that. He used to sprawl face down like a dead body in a river, or haphazardly thrown over a couch. Sometimes he’d say it was cold and pretty much climb right into Rhodey bed, face squished against Rhodey’s chest with his cold ass nose, only his hair sticking out from under the blankets, but now…

Now Rhodey is the one watching Tony fall asleep and hesitantly edging closer and shifting his arm to fit under Tony’s neck (and he knew it’s going to be numb when he wakes up, he knew that, and didn't care), then tracing the metal of the arc-reactor again with his free hand. He didn't know why, it was just so… beautiful, the shade of blue, the feel of it while under his fingers, but then it made Tony shift, adjusting as he slept, and his hand came up, pulling at the fabric of Rhodey’s shirt like it was a blanket, forcing Rhodey to shift closer, a little alarmed, carefully putting a leg over Tony’s to maintain the closeness that Tony clearly wanted.

Rhodey waits there, a bit tense, like he was waiting for Tony to wake up and call him a sappy sucker, but he remains asleep.

Rhodey relaxes and closes his eyes with a sigh, resting the other arm across Tony’s stomach and drifting off.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey wakes up to a noise and blinked open sleep heavy eyes to hear Tony whisper, “Hey. I need, um, one of my gross smoothies, an Emergen-C, and a coffee.”

It took a second to process that because it sounded like Rhodey was still in a dream with how sleepy he was, but when he did, Rhodey let out a sigh, not really wanting to be awake yet, but registering a rumbling in his stomach. “I’ll order breakfast burritos.”

They managed to extract themselves from their blankets and go from there.

Rhodey wanted to take a shower, so he went to the bathroom as Tony split off to go to the kitchen. He grabs his phone and instructs JARVIS to dial the best breakfast food place that delivers to their location. Once they’re on the line and Rhodey looked at the menu JARVIS projects, he confirmed the order and got in the shower, enjoying the lack of urgency.

Nice hot water followed by a nice lotion down, some brief work on his hair, but it was cut recently so there’s not much to do, and getting dressed in fresh clothes; red polo, dark jeans, and some socks. He wanders out into the kitchen area, where Tony has finished brewing some coffee, and took the offered mug, trying not to think too hard into how domestic it all is.

The coffee is just his style, sugar and a dash of cream. Barely any, really. Sure, he may be lactose intolerant, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t have any, and frankly, he can’t take the coffee just black. Didn’t taste right. Coffee is really the only exception to the no lactose rule. That’s how it is.

“They said the food will be here in about thirty minutes and that was twenty minutes ago, so food’s up soon,” Rhodey mentioned as he held the mug, feeling the heat through the glass.

“Nice. I’m starving,” Tony said.

The burritos are pretty damn good. Nothing better than a good breakfast burrito. Pancakes are good too, but neither of them knew how to cook. Last time they tried to make pancakes they stuck to the pan and everything went downhill from there. Rhodey shudders to think about the poor stove and the smell of burning food.

Tony split off after eating to clean himself up as well, which to Rhodey’s knowledge is a whole process, and Rhodey just sort of sat and watched Youtube videos until Tony came back. Rhodey didn't dress in anything fancy that day, just some work clothes, but Rhodey swears to god that when Tony walked past, he smelled like roses and metal. It’s really odd. Because he looked like he should smell like maybe a bit of sweat and clean clothes, that’s it.

They discuss what needed to be done and after some minor prep, get started.

“JARVIS, we’re in hardware mode!” Tony called out, holding a sledgehammer. “We’re going to need to remodel after this, keep tabs on what would go best with our destruction!”

“Sir,” JARVIS said, disapproving at best, and Rhodey readies his hammer to swing at the wall as he chuckles.

 

* * *

 

The crates arrive at about noon, after a quick ramen lunch, and they start setting up. It’s a lot of work, and it didn't go as smoothly as they’d have liked if the failure to lift to first part of the accelerator was any indication, but they make do. Making sure everything is in place correctly is another thing altogether and it’s tiring at best.

When it got dark, they call it a day and get to work on the technical aspect of the whole deal. They work together to design the new reactor with the new core in mind, which Rhodey contributed to quite a bit because he redesigned the reactor several times when trying to fix the problem. In the end, it took them two days to set up the particle accelerator. It’s exhausting, laborious work. Then there’s all the calibration work, and it just goes on endlessly. But they work hard and get it done, because Tony is still dying, technically, and that’s no good.

And Rhodey will probably jump off the cliff if Tony dies. Is that impulsive? That seemed impulsive. That seemed like going too far. If Tony dies, Rhodey will destroy Stane brutally, with no mercy whatsoever, consequences be damned, and tear apart the Ten Rings, and he may become a supervillain. Tony dying seemed like a supervillain worthy cause.

But that will not be happening!

But the damn thing won’t stay level! Rhodey continues to rummage around the scrap pile until something catches his eye and he pulls it out, almost stumbling. “Wait! Wait! I think this’ll work!” Rhodey holds it out to show his friend.

“Perfect,” Tony declared, surrendering. “You’re a miracle worker, a modern not crazy Tesla. Here, give it to me, you’re stronger.”

Tony took the disk thing and Rhodey got ready to lift, wrapping his arms around the coil and getting in a steady stance.

“Lift the coil. Go, go. Put your knees into it, Honey-bear.” Rhodey lifts it up and all of his muscles start burning at once, especially his back and his legs. Tony shoves the scrap under it quickly and Rhodey drops the accelerator when instructed.

Rhodey breathed out, the burning in his limbs fading, just not the pain in his back. He stretches, putting his hands against the pained area as he winces.

“That’s why I said use your knees. Now you’re going to have back problems,” Tony scolded as he placed the level, peering at it critically. ”Perfectly level.”

“Yay!” Rhodey said, but he was not in it all the way because of the pain in his back. “Fucking finally.” It had taken a lot of improv, after all, and he figures the sooner they use it and make this whole thing work out, the better.

“JARVIS, what do we need to get this little lady under way?” Tony asked

“You need to put the prism in place and adjust the trajectory. Afterwards, we need to access the power grid, set it to our specifications, and we should be good to go, sir,” JARVIS replied. “As well as set up the actual core the accelerator will be influencing.”

“I’ll get the prism and set the reactor core, you set up the electric grid,” Rhodey offered.

“Good plan,” Tony agreed.

Rhodey sort of chose the easy job. The prism was pretty much a ‘place this here’ sort of gig, except that he had to fasten it to the table so the beam didn’t knock it straight off the table from the force, and the prism was the same but required some adjusting so they get the right trajectory. He was done in about thirty or so minutes, but Tony was still working on the electrical stuff, hooking the accelerator up to the grid and everything.

And then… they’re done. They’re all ready to go. It’s a little stupefying.

Tony leaned on the accelerator and considered it. “I’m getting… Not Mona Lisa vibes, but Girl with a Pearl Earring vibes.”

Rhodey was nothing short of completely confused. That meant… literally nothing. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Go to a fucking art show, Rhodey,” Tony said with a pointed look. “Uncultured  _swine_.”

Rhodey gave up and after running the system checks, they got started. Tony put on a pair of fancy sunglasses and grabbed the master board key for the electrical aspect, getting ready to put that in to start the process.

Rhodey put on a welding mask. It wasn't as cool as Tony’s special sunglasses, but it was safe. But seriously, he wondered as he pushed the mask up to look at Tony, “Question,” Rhodey said. “How the  _fuck_  do you make engineering look so good?”

He sniffs Tony’s shoulder, and he should smell like sweat by now, but, “And why do you smell like roses and gold?”

“It’s a gift, and my mothers favorite perfume. Besides that, I’m very fashionable. I had these sunglasses specially made for welding and the like because I wanted to look cute while doing it.” Tony looked Rhodey up and down, considering. “Try this and take your _fucking_  polo off.”

Rhodey laughed and decides, ‘fuck it’ and follows Tony’s instruction for the hell of it. He puts his stuff on the table, took off his shirt, which exposes him to the cold air of the lab, and then puts it all back on; gloves, mask, wrench propped up on his shoulder, and he shamelessly poses a bit.

“Ooh, excuse you?” Tony pretty much gasped. “Hon _-ee_!”

Rhody cracks up at the tone, because that was the realist thing. “Let’s just get this done,” Rhodey said, amused, and Tony went to switch on the electrical board. Rhodey started moving as the lights dimmed. The accelerator started up loudly and they raced to get to the adjustment wheel above the prism, two pairs of hands holding on.

“Initializing prismatic accelerator, sirs,” JARVIS said.

Tony tried to move the wheel and then quickly motioned for Rhodey to get the wrench. Rhodey quickly locked it in place as the whole accelerator started shaking.

“Approaching maximum power,” JARVIS warned them and Rhodey let out the breath he was holding.

A moment later, a bright brilliant blue beam shot across the area and Rhodey realized that he had fucked up in his adjustment and he started pulling on the wrench to fix it. “Fuck, my bad,” he apologized quickly and then they accidentally cut metal cabinet in half.

“Whoops,” Tony said and Rhodey nudged him a bit for taking the blame.

They finally reached the device and carefully aimed the beam to hit the piece of base metal. The metal glowed blue before burning a brilliant blinding white. Rhodey was glad he was wearing the welding mask. Tony fumbled for the power switch and the machine turned off, whirling down as the power came back, lights above them flickering until they stayed on.

Tony pushed up his sunglasses. “Well, that was easy.”

“Yeah. Cool,” Rhodey responded and followed Tony under the machines, examining the glowing triangle as they approached.

“Congratulations sirs, you have created a new element,” JARVIS said pleasantly. That drew them in even more, and they got as close as they were comfortable with. It really was pretty damn neat. Rhodey had never seen anything like it. It was unique in color, the structure of the atoms, and the energy it contained? Unparallelled by anything. It was nothing short of exciting.

“That is so cooooool,” Rhodey mumbled. “That is so coooooooool.”

“This is so coool,” Tony confirmed.

“What do you wanna call it?” Rhodey asked, and glanced at Tony, who frowned as he thought.

“Starkhodium?” Tony suggested after a moment of consideration. “With Stark bring first purely because my dad discovered it, but we made it a reality.”

Rhodey considers. “Better than what I would have come up with. Rhoarkium just sounds stupid anyway. The fact that it’s charged with enough energy to light up without being radioactive is so cool,” Rhodey noted, because seriously… he wasn't about to let Tony put something radioactive in his chest. The arc was bad enough already.

Tony fished the metal piece out of the stand with a pair of needle nose pliers. “This is some tight shit,” Tony agreed.

Right. There was a reason they created the element, Rhodey quickly grabbed the reactor they made with this core in mind and holds it out, letting the thing open up. “Doctor Stark,” Rhodey teases.

“Doctor Rhodes,” Tony replied and slotted the piece in.

They watched it take in the core, but Rhodey’s eyes flicked up to watch Tony, seeing the blue of the new arc slowly light up his face, light shining off his bright eyes, a little relieved smile on his lips.

“The reactor has accepted the modified core,” JARVIS noted, shaking Rhodey from his staring. “I’ll start running diagnostics.”

“You do that,” Tony murmured and just under an hour later, they replaced the reactors. Rhodey was sitting beside Tony, where he was laying on reclining chair. His shirt was off and the scars around the reactor were in plain view. Rhodey wanted to examine them all, the ones with surgical precision, the messy ones that looked more like glass shatterings that punctured his body, but he was there for Tony, not just to look at him. And then there were all the lines sprouting from the reactor, like a high tech puzzle, dark and murky that Rhodey knew on an instinctual level was wrong.

Tony took out the old reactor and Rhodey handed him the new one.

Once it clicked into place, Tony let out a small gasp and his jaw twitches.

“Tastes like coconuts… and metal,” Tony said after a minute.

“That… is strange,” Rhodey replied, worried.

“I mean, the reactor is near my lungs and esophagus,” Tony said. “Does my breath smell like coconut?” Tony blew at his face and Rhodey tried to figure out how this was his life before he sniffed the air. Okay, maybe there was something there, but it was hard to say exactly.

“I think something’s there, kinda metallic,” Rhodey reluctantly agreed, trying to put the scent into words. “But I don’t actually know. Okay. So, we’ll keep an eye on that, yeah?”

“Sure, but I’d rather my mouth taste like the tropics than ass and smoke, like the palladium was like.”

Rhodey looked at the reactor in his hands, thinking of his this thing was killing Tony just moments ago. “Yeah, I guess I can’t argue that,” he said softly.

“Wanna kiss?” Tony said suddenly and Rhodey looked up.

“Not really,” Rhodey said in confusion. Because, yeah, he was probably more attached to Tony than he should be, but when he thought about kissing Tony right then he kind of just… didn't want to. It didn't feel right. It wasn’t… them, wasn’t part of their relationship.

Tony pulled out a bunch of Hershey Kisses, milk chocolate, mind you, out of his pocket and Rhodey felt his soul die out of exasperation. “Fuck you,” Rhodey said because that was all he could use to respond to Tony’s bullshit and Tony just laughed at him.

Rhodey got up and walked away. “I’m leaving.”

“Rhodey, baby, no!” Tony cackled after him.

“Nope! That was the final straw! I’m going upstairs, stew in what you’ve done!”

“Rhodey, platypus, baby bean, honey bunny, beloved!”

That last one was… huh. But Rhodey stuck on and went upstairs to make some food because he was hungry. Food ended up being leftovers, and Tony joined him, this time without the chocolates.

 

* * *

 

The next day they took easy and reviewed the files they stole from Stane’s office. It… the numbers were bad, the amounts were bad, the readouts were bad, the money going through SI to Stane was… bad. Rhodey hated reading through it all, trying to knock off what he remembered destroying, but it was too much to do, too much to think about.

And then there was Stane’s armor. The Iron Monger. The stuff of nightmares.

Tony had been staring at the blueprints for about thirty minutes now and Rhodey was getting nervous.

“I have to destroy this suit,” Tony said suddenly.

“The Iron Monger suit?” Rhodey asked, even though he already knew the answer. This was just for… just to hear it out loud. Just to acknowledge the thing.

“As soon as possible,” Tony confirmed. “This can’t… I can’t have this, I can’t have the deaths this suit causes on my hands.”

“Tonight then. We’ll go tonight.” And that was that.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey went down to the lab after dinner to work on his armor a bit and get everything ready. He tried to figure out what to do with Tony’s old reactor, but was at a bit of a loss. As much as he wanted to just toss it, he felt that it had a lot of memories connected with it. But it was killing Tony and that was just unforgivable enough to warrant recycling. He put it in the recycling pile and went back to his armor, unfolded for ease of access to parts as he scribbled down ideas for later investigation. He wanted to see if he could get a better holster situation for his swords, make it a little smoother, little more efficiently, but he wasn’t expecting to get too far with it. Since Tony hasn’t made any plans to disassemble the particle accelerator, Rhodey thinks it was likely that they’ll make more Starkhodium and more reactors. Maybe he could send some suit redesigns to Tony and ask if he could make them happen, with the new reactor and all. It was always good to keep things updated.

He also wanted to clear up after the accelerator a bit too. One of the supports had fallen when they activated the thing, and now that he had time to spare, he could make it right again. Besides that, he figured he could practice with his laser swords a bit before they go out.

He was done with most of that but wanted to see the armor’s blueprints to see if his ideas would work in actuality.

“Hey, JARVIS? Can I have a projection of my armors designs?”

He waited, but nothing appeared.

Rhodey got a little nervous and he looked around, eyeing the cameras. “Jay! You hear me, buddy?”

Nothing.

“JARVIS!”

Nothing. Rhodey stood and started out of the lab, mind going a hundred miles per hour as a chill settled in his chest, nerves, and anxiety twisting in his bones.

“Jarvis?!” he tried one more time, and then, getting nowhere there, padded up the stairs, pulling himself faster by the railing. “Tony! Tony where are you?”

No response.

“ _JARVIS_ ! What the  _hell_  is going on, why aren’t you responding?! What the hell is-?!” Rhodey froze as he started down the hall, turning a corner and seeing a body on the ground. Ice filled his chest and head and he couldn’t- he- Tony-

Tony was moving, crawling his way slowly, clumsily, sweat bleeding through his shit, face pale and he slipped, arms shooting out from under him and dropping him to the ground. He coughed and it sounded bad.

“Fuck! Tony!” Rhodey shouted limbs starting to work again and before he could even comprehend, he was down on his knees, pulling Tony up into a sitting position and noticing lack of blue, a lack of light. “Fuck, fuck! What the fuck-?” His hand went to the empty spot in Tony’s chest, a hole burnt through his shirt, and his fingers slip inside the hole in Tony’s chest. It’s… bad, and nothing but badness registers in Rhodey’s mind as panic grows.

“Rho-ee,” Tony slurs, and his head hits Rhodey’s shoulder. “S-sta-anne. Took. Ah- arc. C-cahn’t… m-move.”

“Okay, fuck, fuck fuck, fuck!” Rhodey panicked. “I’ve got you, just hold on.”

He needed an arc-reactor. There are two downstairs. He just needed to get Tony there. Rhodey pulls Tony’s arm around his head and slides his other arm around Tony’s waist. When he lifts, he lifts with his legs, like Tony was always telling him to do, and Tony makes a pained noise.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” Rhodey barks and started moving as quickly as he can back to the lab. He managed to get down all the steps without falling and punches in the password as fast as his shaking hand can manage. When it clicks open, he wastes no time in getting Tony to an empty workbench to lay him down as easily as he can manage.

Tony looked bad, he looked pale and- is that blood coming out of his ears? What the fuck happened?

Rhodey rushed to grab the arc from the recycling pile and he was damn glad he didn’t just toss it or break it, and came right back, stubbing his toe on a bench but not giving a shit.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Rhodey reassures, mostly himself, trying not to look at Tony, just focusing on the problem, and reaches into the hole in Tony’s chest to grab wires and start connecting them. He twists the old arc to lock it, but it didn't fit quite right, it’s a bit loose. It does the trick.

Tony gasps and coughs and Rhodey tried to check to see what was wrong, reading the pained expression on Tony’s face. His hands flutter around, not knowing where to be. “Tony, Tony, sweetheart.” They finally settle on Tony’s face to wipe away tears, because it hurts to see them pooling there. “Okay?”

Tony blinked and nods once, but then started crying in earnest, pale face starting to flush red and clumsy hands coming up to hide himself. Rhodey can’t take it, he just pulls Tony up into a hug, letting him press his face into his neck, hot tears against skin, and grab at his shirt.

“You have to stop almost dying on me, you butthead,” Rhodey said to try to calm him down, joking always was their way, and Tony just nods into him.

“Hzzvvvv-oooo--ooooonnnnn---eeeeeeeezvvveetettt!”

Rhodey jumped and tried to seem like he hadn’t. He looked around before recognizing the sound coming from the speakers.

“JARVIS?” Tony asked with a raspy pained voice. “Buddy?”

Loud shrieking static and more random unsettling noise followed.

“ZZZZZZZZZZZZZVVVVVVVVVVVVVVTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-TONY!”

JARVIS’ hologram came to be in a messy burst of static into the air a few feet above a table and he got his ass knocked to the ground when he bounced right off of it, sending tools clattering. Rhodey winced, but JARVIS got right back up as best he could.

“SIR!?” JARVIS shouted desperately, and he looked fucked, like he’d just crawled through hell and came back the other side trying to put out a fire. His form was glitchy and static filled, unable to form properly.

“Jay!” Tony gasped.

JARVIS tried to walk their way but fell when one of his legs just upped and vanished.

“I’ve never had such issues with my holograms, I don’t know what’s happening,” JARVIS tried as his face came in and out of existence, still moving forward. “Are you okay, sirs? What happened? I can’t access as much as the security system as I should be, and you appear distressed and the-” JARVIS stopped still, staring right at Tony’s chest, his hands on Tony’s shoulders to see about him. “That is  _not_  the replacement reactor.”

“No,” Tony agreed. “It’s not. Stane shut down the security and you with passcodes Howard gave him when he had the house built. He took the reactor right out of my chest.”

Oh. But that didn’t explain how, or why Tony could barely move or- maybe that didn’t matter. What mattered was killing the bastard as soon as possible.

“When I get my hands on that man, he will regret being born,” JARVIS growled and wow, seems that JARVIS agreed with him. Rhodey had to shoot the AI a look for that though, because that was  _way_ homicidal and by the look in JARVIS’ eyes, even if one keeps vanishing, that emotion is very serious and very real. Rhodey wonders if JARVIS would personally murder anyone or hire an assassin to do it.

“We have to go,” Tony blurted.

“What?”

“He’s going to put the reactor in his suit. You know, the suit we agreed to destroy before he ever powered it on because of its destructive capabilities?” Tony his voice rising in pitch as his breathing quickens. “If Stane finds out SHIELD is after him, he’s going to make sure he isn’t captured, one way or another. We need to go stop him before he kills people!”

“Okay, okay, we’ll get suited up,” Rhodey agreed, but he had other priorities as well. “You said you couldn’t move, is everything okay now?”

Tony looked uncertain and bit his lip, shifting and moving his limbs. “Um. Mostly.”

“Okay then no, we’re going to wait until you’re clear to fly and then we’ll go,” Rhodey stated, because if Tony wasn’t in a position to fly, he wasn't in a position to fight Stane. “You are my priority. Not SHIELD, not Stane… Well, maybe Stane, but only because I want to  _murder_  him.”

Tony opened his mouth to protest and Rhodey glared at him until he let it go.

“Okay, good. JARVIS, stay with Tony while I go get some wet wipes and the first aid kit,” Rhodey instructed.

“I’m fine,” Tony denied.

“You have blood dripping out of your ears, Tony. You are very far from fine,” Rhodey retorted. “And your shirt has a hole burnt into it, and there’s probably damage inside the arc casing we need to fix if that’s the case. You almost died and we are going to make sure that’s not a possibility before we go catch this bastard.”

He ran up the stairs to find the first aid kit, which was still in the living room from a couple days ago. He grabbed it, checked to see if there were wipes, and then went back downstairs, where Tony was still sitting with JARVIS.

Tony’s hands weren’t working right, stiff and clumsy, a couple fingers not moving quite right, so Rhodey took the liberty of cleaning off his face and the blood from his ears. He also checked out the arc reactor and the area around it. It was red and inflamed, hot to the touch, burnt slightly. Rhodey smeared burn cream around it and hoped it helped.

Which reminded Rhodey of the possible damage inside the arc reactor, so he had Tony hold it as Rhodey checked the inside, seeing cut melted metal. There wasn’t too much he could do but try to make adjustments with metal bits that are easy to mold and melt. It wasn’t great, but it would hold in a pinch.

From there, they tested Tony’s reflexes, ability to walk in a straight line and touch his toes, anything quick they could think of before suiting up. Rhodey was quick about it, getting in his undersuit, pulling on his chest plate, vambraces, boots, clipping his swords to his suit.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let himself become one with the suit.

“Ready?” Tony asked over the comm and Rhodey opened his eyes.

“Let’s get it on,” Rhodey said darkly. “No motherfucker tries to kill my best friend and gets away with it.” And he meant it. Stane would be dead before dawn. Mark his words, he would see to it, one way or another.

“Jay, see what you can do about getting us to that suit ASAP.”

“Calculating route, sirs. I have a heads up on SHIELD, they’re mobilizing to detain Stane,” JARVIS replied and Rhodey examined the map JARVIS brought up. “If I’m right, they’ll arrive at the facility with the Mark I Iron Monger suit minutes after Stane does.”

“Shit. Okay, we’ve got to move.”

Tony was off like a shot and Rhodey activated his boots darting after him immediately, following the blazing white trail, right out of the parking garage. The flight was tense and quick. Rhodey hardly paid any attention to what was around him, eyes on Tony and the HUD, what flight path they were taking, the SHIELD agents progress. He had to focus. He kept thinking of ways to kill Stane, what he wanted to say to the evil bastard.

He could see the facility ahead, and as they got to the parking lot, slowing to a stop and hovering above it, he spotted several SHIELD vans, the logo plastered on the side of some of them. There was also another car, one that Rhodey was pretty sure was Stane’s and he felt the strong urge to key it.

“Oh fuck, they’re already here.”

“Let’s get in and see if we can intercept before anything happens,” Rhodey said and they drop down in front of the doors, the light from inside shining on them. JARVIS got them in by bypassing security protocols, and they pushed inside, scanning the areas.

“The lab they have the armor setup in is that way.” Rhodey pointed after glancing around and finding the door, both of them quickly coming upon it after he did so. The lock had been blasted off, some soot around the handle and lock. “Should I go first?”

“No, together.”

Rhodey nodded and they started over, trying to scan inside.

“Go dark, JARVIS, kill the speakers.”

Rhodey felt his suit darken and he pulled out his sword pieces, extending them and clipping them together so he could carry both with one hand.

“Going Darth Maul, are we?” Tony asked.

“Is now really the time?” Rhodey replied.

“No. I guess.”

They got to the door and peered down the stairwell, where darkness hid a second door. The flashlights occasionally cut through the dark, bright white against black. Rhodey let out a breath and they both silently went down the steps. Plastering themselves to the wall on the sides of the doors, they both looked in, seeing the SHIELD agents and their investigation.

“Wheels,” Tony murmurs. “It will, um, hide the noise of us walking.”

Rhodey nods and pulls his feet up, letting the wheels in the soles of the boots fold themselves out and then adjusts his stance. When they both seem ready, Rhodey motioned them forward and they go in opposite directions around the lab space.

It was dark, so dark Rhodey couldn’t see jack, except for what was right in front of him and whatever the flashlights slid over. He avoided the light to remain undetected, still trying to find the Iron Monger suit or Stane. He hoped he found the latter so he could deal with him quickly.

“Target?” Tony asked.

“Negative,” Rhodey whispered, peering through the dark and the machinery and ominously hanging chains. “Where the fuck is he?”

A few more silent moments passed, except for the quiet methodical communications between the agents. Rhodey ducked under a walkway, rolling along silently. He has to hand it to Tony, roller skates really were the way to go.

Rhodey let out a breath, eyeing an agent peering into the darkness and- “Rhodey,” Tony said suddenly and there was a warning in his voice that made Rhodey look around quickly for the threat.

“See something?” Rhodey asked quickly, locating Tony by way of JARVIS highlighting where his armor was on the HUD. He was barely done speaking before a pair of white lights came on in front of that poor dumb SHIELD agent, rising up with a very deliberate threat.

“Engage, engage!” Tony shouted and Rhodey triggers his sword instantly, moving like a hunter toward Stane. He tried to get in position to save the poor idiot standing stupefied in front of him, but Tony got there first. Tony slammed into Stane just before the man blasts the hell out of the agent, locking him into a stumble.

“Stane on premises, in an armor, being engaged by the Iron Men!” the agent bellows, and gunfire rings in the air.

Rhodey jumped and swings his blade, but his swords don’t do as much damage as he would have liked because the armor was thick and reinforced. He needed to be careful too, because Tony was on Stane like he was riding a mechanical bull and the last thing Rhodey wanted to do is hurt Tony in the process. Besides that, Stane keeps moving out of the way. He knew that if Rhodey manages to get in a good swing, he was going to find his suit cut into ribbons.

“You should have just died!” Stane roars at Tony. “It would have been easier for everybody!”

“I’m pretty hard to kill, Stane, I don’t think you have it in you.”

Ooh, sick burn, Rhodey thought and watched with a proud grin as Tony uppercuts Stane after avoiding a hit. That puts Stane right in Rhodey’s range, and he swings his double-bladed sword, but yet again, Stane jumped back. He pulls one of the chains out of the ceiling the thing is wrapped around the blade in an instant, tangled in the axe like end, and started to melt as Rhodey tried to pull it back.

The blades are yanked out of Rhodey’s hands and fall to the floor, where the red glow dies. Stane crunches one end under his heavy boot and a blow from a fist slammed into Rhodey’s shoulder with enough force to send him flying. He hits a wall and has to reconfigure himself for a moment as Tony engages Stane again. Rhodey is up and moving again as Stane grabs Tony and manages to throw him right through one of the support pillars.

“You little pissants are always getting in the way of my plans. I shouldn’t have gone right for the prize, I should have killed  _him_  first, then  _you_ ,” Stane barks and Rhodey blasts himself in the air to try to kick Stane right in the head. But Stane grabs him in one giant fist and Rhodey is struck by just how large the suit is compared to them. The thing has to be fifteen feet tall and his hand is wrapped around Rhodey’s entire chest like he was picking up a doll.

The thought flies out of his mind as his chest started getting compressed and pain races up his side, the pressure making him feel like an old can of soda. It hurts and keeps hurting and Rhodey has to stop screaming because he can’t breathe-

But then Stane is hit by something fast and sharp, right in the chest and he went soaring through the air, dropping Rhodey right on the floor to try to catch his breath.

“Ow, fuck,” Rhodey grits out and pushes himself up, running toward the hole in the wall that Tony just made. It was pretty damn impressive, just in and of itself, and when Rhodey got there all he sees is a busy freeway and Stane holding a goddamn car above his head, facing off against Tony who’s trying to get him to let the car go.

“Put them down, Stane!”

“Collateral damage, Iron Man” Stane jeers. “I’ve been dreaming of killing you with your own weapon for _weeks._ ”

Oh, perfect. Rhodey blasts forward and skids to a stop right in front of Tony, hands up and blasters shrieking.  _“Keep dreaming,”_  Rhodey sneers and light erupts from his gauntlets, blasting Stane back some dozen or so feet.

But then there’s the car.

“Oh, shit,” Rhodey snapped and they rush to catch the vehicle. It is not an easy thing to catch without dropping, and even harder to hold it so it didn't crash right to the ground with a screaming family inside. They try to keep it from flipping over them and Rhodey has to move his leg or it will and Tony’s side dips, making Rhodey stumble and fall to one knee to keep it upright and the weight makes every single one of his muscles and he was accidently holding his breath under the strain.

“Fuck, sorry,” Tony hisses.

Rhodey quickly moves his arm to push down on the hood and the car, thankfully, falls back onto its wheels easily enough. The driver slammed the acceleration and hit them, but they’re on either side so they really mostly get knocked to the side, hitting the hood only a bit. Rhodey felt heavy pressure go over his foot. Nothing bad but- “She ran over my foot!” Rhodey exclaims, both hands up in exasperation. “That’s just ungrateful!”

Heavy footsteps interrupt his exasperation and Rhodey is up immediately, watching him like he was a predator, like the backstabbing viper he is.

A motorcyclist tried to get out of the area by speeding through them, but Stane grabs the vehicle by the handles. Rhodey has scarcely a moment to watch the driver fly off and hit the road (probably be fine, it was mostly on his side, his arm, maybe that got broken, but it wasn’t his head or back) and then-

Then he got hit. Upper chest and head, and he felt all of his senses rattled, blurry nothingness around him as the world is flashing by him. There’s too much to process at once, but he hits… several things and his head is all sorts of knocked around and he sees a heavy heavy metal wedge, almost like the blade of an axe in front of his face-

And darkness as pain and noise explodes around him.

 

* * *

 

“Rhodey? Rhodey can you hear me?”

The sound is muffled and full of static, but he can hear it. It sounds like yarn in his ears, tickling his senses. Pain came into awareness next, and a tickle in the back of his throat. Rhodey blinked a few times, everything is blurry and disoriented, and he can’t see quite right, he wasn't sure why, but he coughed and struggled for a better degree of consciousness.

He coughed to clear his throat and groans as he shifted. “Ow, what the fuck?” Rhodey said into the muffled static he heard.

And he blinked again, trying to move. His… his helmet was stuck on something. Like he’d been hooked onto it. He can finally see that there’s something almost touching him, can feel the press of metal against his partially swollen eye, that wedge thing that must have breached the helmet and held him up by friction force, the helmet clamping around it. He yanks his helmet off of it and felt an ache in his neck and back and head. That was… close.

“Shit. God damn,  _ow_. Fuck. Tones? That you? Are you okay?” he asked, confused, trying to puzzle together what happened.

“Yeah, you good?” Tony replied, and it’s not much, but Tony being okay was always a good thing.

“Um.  _No,_ ” Rhodey said because everything aches and he pulls himself up by a walkway. “But I’m intact.” He looked down at his suit. His boot was bust, practically falling off his foot, and his chest plate is cracked a bit. His helmet is junked, but half the HUD is working. “My suit… not as much, but functional. What  _happened_ ? Where  _are_ you?”

Rhodey finds his sword and picks it up. One out of two isn’t bad. He can always make a new one.

“Roof, I’m at one percent power,” Tony replied, and Rhodey looked up, despite not being able to see him. That’s not a great percent. In fact, that's bad. “I need to get out of this suit before it eats up the rest of the power in my arc.”

“You can have mine,” Rhodey said. “I’ll, uh. Figure myself out and head up.”

A loud slamming noise alerts came over the comm and the roof shakes and Rhodey’s on edge again. “Oh, son of a  _fuck_. Shit!”

Not good.  _Not good. NOT GOOD!_  “Tony?!” Rhodey blurts fearfully and Tony  _didn't reply_  so Rhodey just ran.

He didn't care that his boot falls off before he was  out of the room, even though it makes it a little harder to run, because he has to be up on the ball of his foot to be tall enough to not be lopsided, he didn't care that he was  stepping on shrapnel and rubble. He only cares that he was too slow, that this was taking too long because Tony is in trouble, Tony is in danger. As he ran up the stairs and whirls around in the arc reactor room for the entrance to the rooftop, he tried to find the exit, and it’s only the helpful arrow that appears on the working half of his HUD that helps him find it.

The glass above the reactor started to shatter with the gunfire and Rhodey books it as fast as he can, almost falling twice. He rushed the door, and it hits the wall with the force of the impact. Rhodey started scrambling up the stairs, too damn many of them. His foot hurts, blood making everything slick, and the explosions are not reassuring.

He had trouble opening the door because  _it’s fucking locked or jammed something_  and he slammed his shoulder into it, breaking the lock off. The rooftop air washes over him and he can see Stane’s suit, open wide. He can see movement beyond that, Tony in his almost dead suit, a glint of gold and red.

Rage burns up Rhodey’s body and his sword activates without a second thought as he ran toward the man, yelling out in pure fury. Stane turns to see what was going on just in time to watch Rhodey blast himself in the air with one boot and follow the arc, both hands on the sword and holding it above his head to strike down.

Glowing red punches through Stane’s torso with almost no resistance, vanishing and puncturing the other side of the suit.

Rhodey can’t look away from the glow vanishing inside of Stane. There’s no bleeding. The sword is hot enough to instantly cauterize, but the smell of sizzling flesh hits his nose through the crack in the helmet.

The world went silent and Rhodey looked up into Stane’s eyes, eyes that are wide and stunned.

“You do not get to threaten what is mine and  _Tony is mine_ ,” Rhodey said with as much viciousness as he felt in his heart, glaring straight into the shriveled black remains of Stane’s cold slimy soul. Rhodey started to twists the sword to see how Stane’s expression turns pale and pained with morbid curiosity. It’s cruel and Rhodey can’t help how much he enjoys it. He hopes it hurts. He can see that it does. “You tried to kill him, so I _killed you._ ”

“Y-you-” Stane’s mouth seemed to stop working.

“Go to  _hell,_ ” Rhodey said with bared teeth.

Blood dribbles out of Stane’s mouth and it’s kind of strange to watch, but then his eyes are rolling into the back of his head and the suit is falling backward.

It hits the metal beams of the skylight, shaking the building, and Rhodey carefully crouches on Stane’s chest plate. He stands with some difficulty, trying not to move too much because the metal groaned under them and one foot was slippery with blood. The sword went dark in Stane’s chest and Rhodey glanced up to see Tony dangling over the reactor below, stunned and motionless

Okay, okay, light as a feather, light as a feather, he thought as he took a tiny step forward, arms up for balance. He has to help Tony and he was as light as a feather. He walked along Stane’s armor like it was a balance beam, and stays even and balanced. Rhodey reaches out when he got to where Tony is, bracing himself, and grabs Tony’s armor, pulling him up one hand at a time. Keeping his eye on Tony as he steadies himself on the Iron Monger suit bridge, Rhodey started leading him back.

Rhodey was ready to get them off the skylight, everything else be damned, but then he spots the reactor, Tony’s heart in Stane’s suit, and he makes a decision. He kept guiding Tony but stayed where he was on Stane’s torso.

“What are you doing, this will give at any moment,” Tony whispered urgently.

“He stole your heart, and that’s not his to keep, that’s-” ‘ _mine_ ’ seemed too possessive but he almost said it anyway. He didn't mean it like that, he didn't mean to sound so possessive, but he created that, he  _helped_  create that, and he knew that he loves Tony with his whole being, every fiber or it, and he knew that Tony loves him too, so that arc, that heart, is Tony’s, and that heart is his. “Fucking  _go_ , Tony.”

He lowers himself to get the containment unit open, letting his gauntlet fold back to get rid of clumsy suit fingers, trying to get to the arc, and the glass in front of it folds back when he triggers the release.

“Not without you,” Tony snapped.

“If you go, the thing will have less weight and may hold longer,” Rhodey argues and as he fumbles inside the casing, the skylight drops a degree, making Rhodey’s hair stand on end. “Go!”

Tony does, he keeps moving, but every step is halted and reluctant. “Rhodey come on, just get over here,” Tony begs and he pulls himself up to safety.

Rhodey pulls the arc out of the casing and the floor beneath him moans like it’s a dying animal. But it didn't stop again, it keeps creaking and Rhodey rushed to get off of the skylight because it's giving out for real now, and when Stane hits the reactor below it’s going to blow the roof off the place. The skylight drops out under him with the found of breaking metal and Rhodey activates his boot, his single boot, and grabs onto Tony as he shoots toward the dark sky, trying to get away as fast as possible.

His arms wrap around Tony and his velocity carries them right off of the roof.

But not before the explosion sends fire and noise and hot air at them. Rhodey can feel fire licking at his bloodied foot and it burns like a son of a bitch. It’s like stepping on coals, like walking over a lit stove and he guns it as much as he can. The noise is deafening, and the fact that his mask is cracked didn't help matters. He can hear roaring and a violent electrical sound as the building started to burst out and cave in.

He was glad he can’t see it but he does feel the electric wave rush through his suit and everything blinked offline before entering reboot mode. They lose air, and Rhodey knew they’re going to hit the asphalt of the parking lot, but better than being caught in the concussive force of an explosion, fire included.

They hit the ground and skid into a van, which crumbles under their joined force. Could be worse, Rhodey thought as he lays there for a minute, catching his breath and fighting back against the pain. He slowly sat up beside Tony, and they just watch the building fall to pieces, the smoke billow up into the sky, vanishing into the darkness. His whole body aches, his chest, his head, his foot stings, his arms ache.

Rhodey coughed at the smoke and held up the reactor to Tony, who took it after a moment.

“Thank you,” Tony said quietly and Rhodey closes his eyes, letting out a relieved breath and leaning against his friend, grabbing his hand. His bare hand, lacing equally bare fingers together. He sort of- not quite dozes, but definitely keeps his eyes closed and just zones out there for a minute there. He hears noise, he hears cars.

“Break’s over,” Tony mumbles and Rhodey opens his eyes, scanning the area. He sees the man, an agent, approaching and stands as gracefully as he can. He stands guard in front of Tony, holding his repulsor out, letting it whine in warning but not firing. No need to escalate. The agent stops and looked at Tony before trying to keep a neutral expression, glancing between them.

“I’d like to thank you,” the agent started carefully, and he is in the right to, because if this dude starts quick talking Rhodey would have 100% hit him, he is too tired for anybody with more than 25% energy levels. “On behalf of SHIELD, for dealing with the threat we encountered during the attempted arrest of Obadiah Stane.”

His gaze flicked around the both of them, at Rhodey’s foot, at Tony, and he tried to get a look through the crack in Rhodey’s helmet. Rhodey turns his head so the undamaged side faces him, blocking his view of Rhodey’s face.

Rhodey heard Tony stand and say “We’re done here.”

“If you could maybe give a statement-” the agent attempts and Tony waved his arms in a firm ‘no.’

“Tracked down an illegal arms trader selling to the Ten Rings, found him copying our suits, he attacked your agents and us, we killed him, end of story. Now, we’re leaving. Goodbye,” Tony lists and finishes.

“Wait,” the agent bursts out. “Did you send the files directing SHIELD toward Stane?”

Tony looked at Rhodey. Rhodey tips his head, neutrally.

“No, actually,” Tony said eventually. “The Stark kid, he contacted us. He said he found a leak in his company and that after he informed you, Stane attacked and almost killed him, told us that Stane was building a suit like ours, so we came to see what we could do.”

Not bad, good plausible set of events.

“Should I send some SHIELD agents his way for protection?” the agent asked.

“I don’t know about you, but Stane seems pretty dead now.”

“Hmm. So he does. How about that,” the agent replied evenly and hey, maybe this guy isn’t so bad. “We’ll follow up on the tip tomorrow then and focus our efforts on a clean up here and an investigation into Stane. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Tony grabs Rhodey’s hand again, fitting them together. “One boot each, one gauntlet each, think we can do it?”

Rhodey nods and they activate their suits on cue. he was sort of out of it for the flight, everything just hurts and now he was cold as well, every bit of him that’s exposed, including his face and head. But Tony is warm. His hand is warm and sweaty in his own and that’s enough as they gently fly through the air, all the urgency bled out of them. He is totally and utterly drained, and his pain has dulled into throbs in specific areas.

They glide through the garage entrance and kind of collapse at the bottom. Rhodey finds himself laying on his side, wrapping his own arms around his torso awkwardly. It’s not great, but he can relax into it.

He was content to just settle into that. Hell, he’d sleep right then and there. He almost straight up does but-

“Thank you, for… for saving me, and for… everything and I’m sorry you got- you got caught up in all my bullshit like murderous godfathers and-” Tony babbles and Rhodey just wanted him to stop. So he grabs Tony’s shoulder and dragged him over so he was settled under Rhodey’s helmet, metal clinking together.

“Shut up,” Rhodey mumbled. “I love you so much, but just please stop it.”

“Okay.”

He dozes again as JARVIS carefully extracts them from damaged armor. He can hear JARVIS speaking occasionally, the tug of armor coming off, the sound of tools working, of latches being undone. He was unpleasantly surprised when they were both pulled up to their feet and made to walk upstairs. His foot really hurt now, now that he was sleepy and achy and walking on it. JARVIS supported him, which made it bearable, but it still hurt.

Turns out the ache in his chest was actually broken ribs. From getting hit with the motorcycle. They were both placed in the bathroom and JARVIS ran them a bath, getting them to undress and sit in the water. The warmth of it, and the pain from hot water against his burnt foot woke Rhodey up a bit and he was kind of surprised to see Tony accept being in a tub, in a bath, so easily. He didn’t question or draw attention to it, but he exchanged a look with JARVIS as they tried to clean off.

After that, JARVIS patched them up pretty good. Tape for their broken or cracked ribs, picking glass out of Rhodey’s foot (which he numbed with a shot, thank god), burn cream on his fucked up foot, wrapped in bandages and a sock over that. They were both checked for concussions (neither had one thank Tesla) and so on. Tony has nasty rings of bruises around his neck and leg, and Rhodey didn’t like that one bit, but then he remembered killing Stane and felt a little better.

JARVIS went to get Rhodey an ice pack for his eye (apparently it was blackening already) after they were dressed in boxers and put on the bed. They both received pain meds and water, also a blessing, and just sat in the silence. Rhodey’s eyes kept closing, and he reminded himself to focus.

“So, when SHIELD shows up tomorrow, what are we going to tell them?” Rhodey asked.

Tony cocked his head, squinting in exhausted confusion.

“Okay, I’ll rephrase,” Rhodey said. “So, Stane tried to kill you and I stopped him. How did that all happen in this house before we called Iron Man?”

Tony rubbed his face. “Let’s try to keep it simple and close to the truth. He paralyzed me, was about to kill me, you stumbled in and stopped him. How about he was going to shoot me? And you wrestled the gun away. He punched you, black eye, and ran when you pointed the gun.”

“Not a terrible idea, sirs. I’ll see what I can do with that and then stage the living room to reflect it,” JARVIS spoke up from the ceiling and then his hologram walked in, reminding Rhodey that JARVIS was the bomb and could multitask like no other, to hand Rhodey his ice pack. Rhodey pressed it against his eye and sighed as the cold seeped into his face. “I’ll brief you in the morning, but until then, you need to rest.”

Tony makes a noise and JARVIS helps him get settled under the covers. Rhodey follows up and then face plants beside Tony, but pain sparks up his side and he flips over. “Ribs,” he reminded himself.

“The pain meds should be working shortly,” JARVIS mentioned as he tucked them in. “Now go to sleep. I will take care of everything from here, you don’t need to worry about it. I’ll leave on some piano music, and keep watch through the cameras. You are safe, I’ve written all access codes out of the security system, baring your own, and I will personally shoot to kill any person who tries to come onto these grounds without your say so.”

Nice, Rhodey thought, already passing the fuck out.

* * *

 

Rhodey came to in the middle of the night to JARVIS prodding him and asking if he can have a blood sample for staging a fake crime scene. Clearly dreaming, Rhodey replied with ‘Why the fuck not,’ because he trusts JARVIS and falls asleep again after feeling a pinch in his arm. Barely hurt, nothing like his burnt foot or cracked ribs.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey wakes up alone and in mild pain. He felt better than yesterday, but things still hurt. He needed morphine ASAP. No, he didn't, that’s dramatic. Sitting up, he coughs once and rubs his eyes, pulling a hand back as his black eye throbs with pain at contact.

Peering around he tried to figure out where Tony was. “Jay?”

“Good morning, Master Rhodes. Sir is speaking with a pair of SHIELD agents about Stane’s attack last night. I have a synopsis of what happened. Are you prepared to hear it?”

Rhodey pats his cheeks firmly to wake up and focuses. “Yeah, okay.”

“Stane disabled the security systems and let himself in. He attempted to strange Sir after paralyzing him. You came up from the lab and saw what was happening, then pulling Stane off of Sir and attempting to fight him. Stane punched you and you staggered into the glass side table, resulting in your cut foot. Despite being injured, your grabbed a shard of glass and threatened Stane with it. He ran off and went down to the labs to steal an energy source you two had been experimenting with. You checked up on Sir, unaware of this, and later contacted the armored men. The living room has been staged and the blood I took from you last night-”

“Wait, that was real?” Rhodey blurted.

“Yes.”

Rhodey gave the nearest camera an incredulous look and then rolled his eyes, giving up.

“Anyway,” JARVIS continues. “I mimicked your foot shape with a hologram. Easy enough. Sir has added the following trivia as well; he told them about the ghost file, the deals and video included, and a vague lie as to your reasons for coming here, research for a project.”

Rhodey got out of bed and kept listening as he started toward the door.

“Sir admitted to sending the files before being paralyzed and Stane attempting to strangle him. Stane brought up the armor and armored men in his monologue. That should be it.”

“Good to know, thanks J.” Rhodey pushed open the door.

“Oh, wait, and Sir is using gender-neutral pronouns today.”

“Oh, good, thank you,” he acknowledged and started limping down the hall. “Tony? Where you at?”

He rounded the corner into the living room and spotted the agents, acting up surprise. “Uh…”

“It’s SHIELD, darling. I left for juice and got government agents instead, it’s quite unfortunate,” Tony drawled. They sounded like a housewife from the fifties.

“Sounds like,” Rhodey agreed, and limped across the room to stand next to Tony, arms crossed. The agents got a look at him, his injuries, and jotted something down on his notepad.

“Can I have your name for the record?” the agent asked.

“James Rupert Rhodes,” Rhodey replied. Tony snorted in amusement and Rhodey leveled them a dry expression. “Oh, like you’re one to talk, Edward. How are your sparkles, you vampire?”

Tony’s hand shoots to their chest, offended.

“That’s what I thought,” Rhodey said and tells the agent his fake side of the story, playing up how he was trying to save Tony and was scared to find a stranger in the house. How he just reacted but wasn’t really a fighter, how much his foot hurt from stepping on that glass after Stane punched him.

The agent wrote that down and they soon had enough of it all. They let themselves out and JARVIS appeared to watch them leave, peeking out from behind a corner.

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” JARVIS remarks.

“To be fair,” Rhodey allowed. “You did a really good job staging everything.”

“Of course I did,” JARVIS said, proudly. “I am brilliant. I was designed that way.” He winks and vanishes, then continuing to speak through the intercom. “Sir, I’ve taken the liberty of reviewing all contracts and legal documents regarding your ownership of Stark Industries, and have confirmed that the company in its entirety goes to you. Stane’s death and the major details regarding it have been released to the public and news organizations are already requesting interviews and the like. I’ve taken the liberty of leaking some information to select organizations. I would like to know what you want me to do with the video, however.”

Tony is quiet and Rhodey watched them. They’re deep in thought, a bit troubled. And why wouldn’t they? This whole shit show was crazy, and learning that Stane was behind all of it had to be a shock.

“Let loose the dogs of war, JARVIS, and get me a meeting with the Board of Directors, ASAP. Rhodey, let's clean ourselves up and dress to depress, I want us to look so good that other people hate themselves.” They say it with that commanding sway Rhodey only hears when Tony’s buffing themself up for a media spectacle.

Oh. Interesting. A day out on the town, looking as expensive as Tony does sometimes. “Alright,” Rhodey said because he likes to dress up for an outing as much as any gay man.

“JARVIS! Get my makeup and find me earrings, the most expensive sons of bitches you can buy!” Tony declares, standing and spreading their arms wide, drama in every motion.

“Of course, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Rhodey was wearing black dress pants, a suit jacket buttoned once at his stomach, and a fancy white dress shirt. There was an expensive silver and black watch on his wrist, designer dress shoes with red socks on his feet, and black aviators with mirrored lenses settled on the bridge of his nose. Helped cover up his eye. Helped make him look goddamn  _good._

Tony looked  _fine as hell_. A gorgeous black backless shirt with a looped neck, a red cotton skirt with a black belt and gold buckle around their lower stomach, white leggings with black high tops that had a burst of pretty flowers on them. Tony was wearing a set of pearl necklaces and pretty gold and ruby earrings. Tony also had a pair of aviators with gold wire and red lenses on their nose and a black clutch purse with beaded flowers. Also some makeup, mostly for the bruises.

Rhodey would have done that for his eye, but Tony didn’t have his skin tone. Not surprising, considering the fact that Tony was a fair sort of tanned white and Rhodey was black. C’est la vie. Maybe next time.

Facing the gauntlet of reporters and paparazzi was crazy as ever, a lot of flashing, a lot of noise, but they linked arms and pushed forward.

“Remember to never look at the cameras, they blind you,” Tony reminded him.

“It’s hard not to,” Rhodey replied but knew the drill. He kept his eyes on the front doors and nodded thankfully to the security guards that opened them for the pair

Sound died down when they were inside and Rhodey let out a relieved breath. He couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder to see, but focused again when Tony spoke.

“Part one done,” Tony said confidently, patting his arm. “Now, to the elevators.”

They boarded the first set and Rhodey watched the elevator numbers go up, wishing there was some elevator music. “Am I here mostly to stand and look pretty?” Rhodey asked after a moment, nudging Tony to reassure the other that it was a joke.

“You always look pretty,” Tony replied and Rhodey smiled. “And partially, but you’re also my backup. You can come in with how Stane was using the company as a front for his weapon sales, or how he literally tried to have us murdered. I am going to drop some major bombs and it will be spectacular. There will be threats involved.”

“Alright, cool,” Rhodey said, because it was. That was the fun part of this all. “Can I sit in the chair?”

“If I’m not in it, yes. I will be standing beside it and leaning on the back, then. I expect you to look unimpressed and stern.”

“I am very good at that,” Rhodey reported. He scared the shit out of a foster parent with a look, so he has to be good at it.

“That’s why you have to job. If you can lace your fingers together and be silent and imposing, that is excellent too,” he added. Nice, low maintenance, low impact. But he wasn't a fan of just being a pretty face. He wanted to make some rich people shake in their boots with a word. That was real power. Intimidation.

“I’ll speak when it seems most effective, with blunt accuracy and cold tones and glares,” Rhodey compromised.

“You are literally the best human being in the whole world and I love you a lot,” Tony said completely serious and Rhodey couldn't stop smiling at the warmth in his chest.

“Thank you,” Rhodey responded, touched. The elevator doors opened and they boarded another one a moment later. Why are there so many elevators?

“Muah!” Tony said as they made the transfer, a warm kiss on Rhodey’s cheek. “Nice thinking, hot stuff.”

“Call me as many pet names as you can to make the old white men uncomfortable,” Rhodey told him.

Tony gasped in delight. “Yes, we can use our uncomfortably platonic interracial relationship against them!”

“Is the dating heavily implied?” Rhodey questioned mischievously.

“I’m going to hyphenate our names at some point.”

Bingo! “You gorgeous cunning little minx,” said, and tweaked Tony’s nose.

Tony laughed. “Ooh, I like that.  _Minx_. Thank you, Doctor Rhodes-Stark.”

“Of course, Doctor Stark-Rhodes.”

“Stark-Rhodes sounds better.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Rhodey said thoughtfully. It was odd, but probably related to letter placement or something. The elevator doors opened to the meeting hall and Tony pulled Rhodey on. They came to a set of dark double doors with silver handles and they went right on it. There were a bunch of people around, and Miss Potts in the corner, frantically looking through a file folder.

“Well, this certainly is a fucked up trash can fire of a mess,” Tony announced. “It certainly ruined my week, what with almost being murdered in my own home by the now ex and very dead CEO who was selling Stark weapons to terrorists.”

Rhodey had never seen so many people look uncomfortable at once, it was incredible.

“Nothing like being strangled in the middle of the night by your supposed godfather!”

Tony let go of Rhodey’s arm to grab the chair at the end of the table, spinning it to face Rhodey, who sat in it as the cue entailed. He could feel Tony lean against it as Rhodey faced forward and laced his fingers together. Imposing figure. Imposing, intimidating. Very cool.

“I don’t recommend it,” Tony finished dangerously.

Rhodey looked around the room, eyeing each and every one of the investors for at least five seconds. They looked away quickly.

“Miss Potts, if you need to use the table to balance those, you are more than welcome. I am your boss now, after all, as the legal CEO of the company,” Tony offered.

“Oh, um,” she started nervously, but pulled herself together. “Thank you, boss.”

“In fact, take a seat beside mine, I have a feeling you are an invaluable member of this company and I’d like to hear your expertise.”

Rhodey glanced at the lady and gave her a reassuring smile before focusing vague disdain toward the rest of them.

“Anyway,” Tony said as she took a seat beside Rhodey. “I’m sure you’ll all thrilled to hear that Stane is dead and gone, especially because he was a murderer and traitor to the entire country and has ruined the reputation of this company in the span of, oh, twenty four hours, so I expect my claim of the company will go smoothly, am I right?”

Rhodey shifted to sit up a little more.

“Of course there will be,” Tony continued. “Especially when I say that effective immediately, we will be shutting down all weapons manufacturing-”

A sudden uproar was expected and Rhodey sneered. “ _A-hem_.”

The noise made them settle immediately, which was fascinating. “If you don’t mind, this is a business meeting,” Rhodey reminded them. “I would hope you of all people would understand the concept of the formality implied in such a meeting. By which I mean; stop acting like children throwing a temper tantrum and listen to what Tony has to say.”

“Thank you, honey bunch,” Tony said happily and the praise made Rhodey struggle to hide a smirk. “As I was saying. After all, the company is going to take a bit hit with this news, and it’s happening right now. People are very upset to hear that America's favorite weapons manufacturers were double dealing to terrorists. They’ve very upset to hear that the acting CEO himself had hired terrorists to murder people for him, they are very upset to hear that man almost murdered people himself. They’re very upset to hear that Stark Industries has become a warmongering company instead of a patriotic one. The only way to have the public change their opinion after this seriously fucked up nonsense bucket of bullshit is to make major changes, and frankly, I’ve been done with weapons since I was first asked to build one.

“So let me make this very clear; if we don’t do this, I sell all of my shares and start a company with the, oh say, hundreds of fully developed plans I’ve accumulated over the years for user friendly technology, sustainable and profitable green energy, and cheaper, smarter, more accurate medical technology, as well as the patents for thirty percent of the weapons that Stark Industries sells, and some of the ones we have in manufacturing and clean energy, to absolutely destroy this company by through popularity and public support for having good morals and public interest in mind, energy sustainability, and desired technology that you can’t begin to think of to outsell you by miles. You all know I can do it. Half of you have been suckign up to my father and I for all of my life, I’ve graduated MIT with more than one PhD, I have a higher IQ than all of you, except for my lovely gentleman here whom I adore, and I’ve had designer input on everything my father ever built since sobriety became a pipedream for him. Without me, this company will stumble and fall to pieces and I will win one way or another. The choice right now is to stick this rough patch out and come out the other side swinging, or jumping ship and letting it go down into the dumpster fire it set. Have I made myself clear?”

Tony made themself damn well clear, and it was amazing to see so many adults look so chagrined.

“Excellent! Let’s get started on what exactly I will be changing in the coming months and go from there, shall we?” Rhodey could imagine a shark smile on Tony’s lips and settled back to watch them work their magic.

 

* * *

 

War Machine, they call him.

Rhodey watched cameras flash and Tony answer questions almost absently.

 _War Machine._ Machine of war. Dangerous, intimidating, destructive, designed for battle and combat. A predator. War Machine. That’s him. He was War Machine. A predator, a hunter.  _A weapon._

Iron Man, they called Tony.

 _Iron Man._  Man of Iron. Strong, resilient, immortal. A symbol of strength and fortitude, unmovable. Ever protected as a protector.

Huh. They seemed to have gotten their personalities spot on in their names.

 

* * *

 

Later, way later, after the press conference and talking to Miss Potts about her murder attempt, they were home, getting dressed in regular comfortable clothes. All was well in the world at long last. As he was waiting for Tony, he got a call.

When he saw his foster parents number, he glanced at the bathroom where Tony was fixing themself up, he stepped out into the hall.

Breathing out, he put the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Jam- I mean. Rhodey. We saw you on the news and I have to say, I know you don’t like it here, but lying to us about this- this whole- trip is very upsetting,” Mary said.

Rhodey rolled his eyes so hard his body hurt. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, it’s more than that,” she added. “You need to understand, you lied to us, went cross country to- to associate with the Stark kid-”

Oh boy.

“And were involved in a crime! Well, you were- preventing one, to my understanding. But you were put in a dangerous situation we could have avoided. You should have been here. We should have never agreed to let you go anywhere.”

“Yeah, because restricting my freedoms would make me just  _love_  existing in your very presence and would  _totally_  prevent me from, I don’t know, disobeying you and doing it anyway.”

“James! You are in so much trouble-!”

“Pft. You think you can do anything to me?” Rhodey demanded, incredulous. “You don’t have the authority to ground me, despite your role as ‘foster parent.’ I have resources outside of you. I can adapt to anything you try without any problem. Your issue with this is not going to become my problem.”

There's a beat. “You’re right. It’s a problem for your next foster parent. Your agent called, said she was going to be moving you again after this incident.”

Rhodey didn't know what he felt. A bit surprised, but also resigned and accepting. Same bullshit as ever. He was just… numb to it by now. “Nice. Thanks for giving me a head up.”

“She also said that if you aren’t back by tomorrow, she was going to have the authorities collect you.”

God dammit. “Wow, calling the cops on a black man who isn’t conforming to your standards?” Rhodey said, mostly out of instinct and there was an awkward silence. Well, he couldn't go back now. “You heard me.”

“I… uh…”

Rhodey waited and when she wasn’t more forthcoming. “I’ll get an airplane to New York tomorrow. Should be back around the afternoon. I’ll text details when I know them. Don’t collect my stuff, I’ll do that myself.”

“Actually we tried to get up there already, but it was locked. You might have trouble-”

“No, I have an electronic lock on it. I didn’t want snoops getting into my stuff,” Rhodey said pointedly. He was lying. He didn’t. The bots probably locked the hatch after he left. They were good bots, smart little soldiers.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight Mary.”

“Goodbye, James.”

Rhodey hung up.

“Master Rhodes, I’ve taken the liberty of organizing your trip back to your foster house. A jet will be ready to take you home tomorrow and Mr. Hogan has been notified,” JARVIS spoke up.

Rhodey sighed. “Thanks, J.”

Tony came out of the room and smiled brightly. “Hey, you want to watch a movie?”

They did. And Rhodey let himself enjoy it. He’d tell Tony about having to go back tonight, but not now. He didn't want to ruin their time together, and he tried to focus on the movie, but it was a useless endeavor. He just sat and felt all these useless emotions. Anger, resignation, mourning, discontent. He plays with Tony’s hair absently, zoning off and trying to push away all the miserable feelings he has in his stomach, the sense of dread in his head and lips.

“How’s your eye?” Tony asked suddenly, looking up at him.

“Oh, fine,” Rhodey dismissed. “Doesn’t even hurt anymore.” Only if he pressed against it.

“Are you going to have to go back to your fosters?” Tony asked next and damn, they were observant.

“Yeah, they called me when you were changing,” Rhodey admitted, slumping. “They were upset that I lied, or something.” He sighed and let his head fall back. “I don’t wanna go back there. I fucking hate it. Or… or maybe I don’t, maybe I just like this better. I like living with you, and ordering take out and watching movies and working in the lab, and maybe I miss JARVIS sometimes more than I should. I hate having them always on my ass because they think I need the supervision or whatever. They treat me like I’m not able to take care of myself. I think if I go back, all I’ll be able to think about was how nice this was and how I won’t have that anymore.”

Rhodey felt Tony take his hand between their own, warmth pressing into his bones. A soft kiss with pressed to his thumb and Rhodey couldn’t help a helpless smile down at them.

“Soon,” Tony said after a minute and it was a promise, a vow. “As soon as you’re 18, you can come straight here. I’ll be 17, of course, you’re older than me, but it’ll be a start. And I can come here. And before you think of it, you cannot adopt me, that is super fucking weird.”

Rhodey felt disgusted and fake gagged, which made Tony laugh.

He bit his lip. “It won’t be the same without you here,” Rhodey informed them.

“Of course not, I’m irreplaceable and gorgeous, I’m a god damn show stopper and we both know it,” Tony said promptly and Rhodey loved their confidence, the bright expression and cocky smile. “But it will be a start. No more rules, no more adults, no more worries.”

“It’ll be a start,” Rhodey murmurs, thinking on new beginnings, feeling hope among the emotions in him.

“A start,” Tony confirmed.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey packed up and left the next day. He was once again on the jet, which gave him time to settle into being back. He was missing his suit and swords, which made him feel naked, but Tony promised to get him a suit as soon as he could. In the meantime, Rhodey was planning on working on his swords. He could make those. He had scrap around. He’d figure it out.

He sighed and looked out the window, to the land and clouds below. He missed being able to fly through clouds like that already, the exhilaration of each flight. He texted his bots about the situation and asked them to be ready, apologizing for the shortness of warning and needing to move again. He thinks they’ve come to expect it and he hates that with all his being.

After landing, the cab took him to the foster house, where they had a still welcome back prepared for him and his agent was already there. She was sitting in the kitchen drinking tea.

“Evening,” Rhodey said as he passed, not looking at her and she didn’t try to initiate any conversation.

He went up to the attic hatch and used a broom to knock. “It’s me, let me up.”

He heard a click and the ladder came down. He climbed up and found his bots waiting patiently. Rhodey sighed and closed the hatch behind him, sitting down in front of them. “Yeah. I know.”

Sweetheart came forward and hugged him and Rhodey felt tears prick his eyes. Jason and Peep followed and they stayed like that for a few minutes. Sniffing and wiping at his face, Rhodey nodded once and began packing up. Credit where it’s due, the bots had started for him. They got a lot of his stuff together and it was easy to shove things in bags from there. He used the empty suit box for his parents' flags and medals. It just… made sense that way. Rhodey took off the dog tags and put them inside it as well, at least for safe transportation.

After his clothes and such were all together. He double checked everything and, satisfied that all his clothes, tools, electronics and such were safe and sound, got all his things together and took them downstairs. Took a few trips, and the bots got in his bag very much last with tiny salutes, but he was ready to go.

Micky gave him a wave goodbye and amazingly, he didn’t smell awful that day. Rhodey wasn’t sure if that was because he cleaned recently, or if he had made an effort to be clean, but he gave the boy a respectful nod as he passed.

Minutes later, he was in the car with his things.

“I hope your proud of how much of a pain you’ve become,” Mrs. Miller said.

Oh, huh, that’s new. Rhodey blinked at the rearview mirror. “I don’t know, I don’t feel any way in particular about it,” Rhodey replied coolly.

The opposite of love isn’t hatred, it’s  _apathy_. He watched her grip on the steering wheel tighten. He didn't… mean to antagonize her, but she should know by now what he thought of her. She chose to put him into this situation, she made this decision when she could have avoided it with ease if she just listened. Her emotions connected to this were not his responsibility.

“I see.”

“Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is,” Rhodey said, crossing his arms. “I wanted to be there for my friend. And I ended up saving my best friend’s life. If he had died, you would be worrying about something much bigger than me skipping classes and lying about where I am.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t feel the need to elaborate.”

They ride in silence for the majority of the trip.

“How’s your foot?”

Rhodey started. “What?”

“I saw you limping, on the television. And I had to file an incident report, so I read the SHIELD release on the incident.”

“Oh. It’s fine. It hurts, but it’s not too bad. Just a few cuts.”

“Okay. Good. I… I do care. You know. I wouldn’t be going through all this trouble if I didn’t care about you.”

“I know,” Rhodey said, because he can admit that at least. “But you don’t care in the way that matters to me. You care about… what situations I’m put in, my safety. You don’t care about my happiness. And to me, that matters the most. I can deal with being unsafe, because if I do something, I realize that my actions have consequences I’m willing to deal with. Living in that junkyard, I was prepared to deal with getting an injury because of the conditions. I did what I would to prevent it, steel toes shoes for my feet, followed safety protocols… And if something was to happen, there was a first aid kit in my shed and I always had my phone on me. I was okay with that. I was happy with that. But you had to come in and get me to safety, my happiness be damned.

“When I went to Malibu with my friend, you decide to remove me because the fosters didn’t have adequate supervision on me. I got hurt because of that, indirectly, and that qualifies as your problem, especially because it became public very quickly. It doesn’t matter that I was willing and able to deal with what situations was put into, it was a problem for you. And being there, I saved the one person who means more than this world to me, who I would kill for-” (and have, he didn't say, because he was aware that people don’t just get away with murder) “-so I can’t even bring myself to apologize to you because it would just be bullshit.”

Mrs. Miller thought about that. “Well. I guess that’s just how it’s going to be.”

“I suppose so. I have to say, I may never forgive you for what you’ve done, but I recognize that you do care, and I imagine you care about the other kids you make your ‘business.’ I appreciate that. Just because you ruined this for me doesn’t mean they have the same experiences. And I recognize that you do good work, as CPS agent. I just trust neither the system nor your judgment regarding me and my case.”

“Okay. That’s good to know.”

“Glad to get it out there.”

They arrived ten minutes later. His new foster parents were named Amanda and Jacob Hollander and they seemed nice. In this house, unusually, he was alone. The only foster kid. Relief hit him like a shotgun blast as he stepped into the clean empty room. One that was on the second floor, with a nice window and closet. He dumped his stuff on the bed and sat, looking around, taking in the new space. He lay down in his room, in his own bed, with a door that locked and everything, his bots unzipping the bag and tumbling out to explore.

They liked the new place much better than the last.

The first day was very low key. Rhodey kept to himself and set up his room and desk. He spoke with his bots, explored the house a bit, and then spent a few hours just watching people play Portal. He needed the break. He was still healing, what with cracked ribs and a fucked up foot, so he took it easy.

He went to bed at a reasonable time, like an old man, and woke up almost noon. He felt somewhat better. He redid all his bandages and such and went downstairs to make a sandwich and get a glass of water. The Hollanders were polite and respectful of his space. They seemed nice, and even though Rhodey was hesitant to warm up to anybody, they really seemed peaceable.

Tony was still busy in Miami, not surprising, so Rhodey just focused his time on redesigning his suit and healing. It’s boring work, but it keeps him occupied. He plays and reads with his bots, he watched TV in an armchair, the Hollanders on the couch, and thought.

War Machine.

They named him  _War Machine_. They saw him work to protect them, killing the terrorists and destroying the weapons, and they called him War Machine. It felt like an earned title. It felt like it was endowed with all the intimidation he put into his work, into his missions, and he didn’t know how to think about it. Was he proud that they noticed the fear he struck into the people he went after, or was he ashamed of being seen as a being who caused death and warfare?

As he watched the TV, seeing Amanda wince as a man was run through with a sword during a battle, he wondered.

 

* * *

 

He was told that, after the summer, he was going into sophomore year at the local High School just a few days into his stay. This did not surprise him, but of course he was reluctant to go. It meant he had to do the summer reading assignment and everything. It was literally the worst, but again, it gave him something to do. He got the books from a bookstore in the area after exploring the mall and going to the hardware store for some materials for his swords. He quite liked reading to his bots, at least, and they seemed to find the books Rhodey had to read interesting.

But the fucking construction was driving him nuts, it was loud and irritating and wasn’t even regular enough to be considered white noise. His phone pings and he noticed a new message from Tony.

Tony had texted him the other day explaining that he had arranged a partnership with Miss Potts for CEO of the company and was told to go back to his foster home as well. It was pretty damn funny that it took so long, but Rhodey didn’t think too much of it. The point being, he also said that his agent was pissed in the exact same way for the exact same reasons, so Tony was also being moved. Or he had already been moved.

_Milliondollerbaby: i dont wanna say theyre old but theyre like sixty or smth_

Yep. Already moved. He must have just arrived, or something.

_Rocketman: nice. Mine r young, like thirties_

_Milliondollerbaby: that’s old 2 you creten_

_Milliondollerbaby: if i ever get to thirty i want you to shoot me so my youthful face can be memorialized on the tabloids_

_Rocketman: lol gettin old aint that bad, like, can u imagin being 10 again_

_Milliondollerbaby: ew. Point._

_Rocketman: like, u could rock a cool beard._

_Rocketman: u can’t now, but when u grow facial hair that isn’t peach fuzz_

Rhodey grinned to himself, imagining Tony’s expression at the jab. Tony sometimes talked about growing a beard, but he wondered if it would make him feel weird on the days or times he felt distanced from gender. He said that if he decided to do it, it would be something neat and extensively styled.

_Milliondollerbaby: rude._

_Rocketman: lol, and eugh, there’s construction on my road and it is so annoying, im tryin to read for the summer proj thing and i could be done already_

_Milliondollerbaby: ew, same. Not the hw, but construction._

_Rocketman: they’re replacing pipes_

_Milliondollarbaby: same._

Could be a coincidence. But maybe not. Rhodey felt his pulse quicken, he could feel his heart jump in his chest as he hesitated and then wrote-

_Rocketman: hey, what street do u live on_

_Milliondollerbaby: idk, Rosehill or smth why_

Please don’t be a coincidence, Rhodey thought as he stumbles down the stairs, and he ends up falling in his haste, slipping down the last five or so and flailing, but managing to make it to the bottom in one piece. How many Rosehill Roads can have construction on them? He looked out the window at the street, seeing if there was any landmark that would confirm what he was hoping.

_Rocketman: is there a bright pink punchbug anywhere on that street_

Rhodey stared at the screen of his phone.

_Milliondollerbaby: yes why_

Rhodey forgot to exist in a calm fashion. He no longer cared of society’s rules or regulations, he didn't give a shit about the ‘indoor voice’ he didn't care about manners or noise complaints, he just ran outside, slamming the door behind him violently, and shouted “Tony!” into the neighborhood.

He stumbles into the front yard and looked around, trying to figure out which one of these houses-

A door is yanked open and Tony came out yelling, “Rhodey?!”

And he is a sight for sore eyes. He was a mess, for Tony standards. A stained pair of jeans, a Metallica band tee, hair isn’t even done. But he looked so damn amazing. It’s a whole come to Jesus moment. It’s ever cheesy beach rom-com, it’s every stupid soap operas’ character return. Rhodey didn't even know what he was doing until he was halfway through tacking Tony in a hug. Like, football tackling.

He realizes his error immediately and twists to take the brunt of the impact before they hit the ground. And he does take the brunt of the tackle. He took the full force of Tony’s whole weight and his own hitting the ground, then the added force of sliding over the grass for a bit. He probably just stained the hell out of his nice yellow shirt, and he can’t breathe because he drove the air from his own lungs.

But who cared!? Tony! Tony cups his face with both hands, looking nothing short of stunned and happy, and saying “I didn’t come up with anything to say to you so I’m gonna have to settle with I love your face, no homo.”

It’s such a stupid thing to say that Rhodey just laughed. “You’re close! You’re so close! I can see you every day, if I want. And I do! You’re the best and you live almost next door!” And he hugged Tony as tightly as he could, feeling joy burst over him, nothing but light in his head as he grins.

“Tesla, it’s so good to see you.” They just stay like that for a while, and Rhodey certainly didn't mind it one bit. “Who’s yard are we in?” Tony then asked a minute later.

“I tackled you into yours,” Rhodey replied, because, well, he was a fair bit faster on foot than Tony was because he was taller and used to running fast on the football field. And that was a damn good tackle.

“Oh good, because I don’t feel like getting up if somebody tells us to get off their lawn.”

“I’m gonna have grass stains,” Rhodey sighed, because he may as well air that.

“I’ll buy you some shirt cleaner, the good kind. Oxyclean or something. Or I’ll buy you new polos.”

Sounds like fun. “The mall has a good selection, wanna go get milkshakes?” Rhodey asked, taking initiative.

“I would like nothing better, Platypus,” Tony said, patting Rhodey’s chest to emphasize his words. “I’ve got to get some shoes on and my wallet, but yes.”

Rhodey didn’t even notice that Tony wasn’t wearing his shoes. He flushed a bit as he stood because he spotted two sets of foster parents staring at them as Tony grabbed his hand and ran them into his foster parent's house. “Come on, you can see the baby bots and JARVIS while I get my stuff.”

 

* * *

 

Rhodey woke in the middle of the night to irregular breathing, coughing and wheezing breaths accompanied by the bed shaking as Tony, Rhodey’s arms still wrapped around him, flat on his back as ever, just with his knees up and arms grabbing onto Rhodey, trembled like a leaf.

It took Rhodey a second to remember why Tony was with him, how they spent the day together and followed that up with a sleepover, but as soon as he does, he keeps calm and ran his hand through Tony’s hair the way he likes.

“You’re okay. You’re safe here with me,” he murmurs to Tony, who’s hands cling to him as he breathed in and out too quickly. “JARVIS is here, and he’ll protect you the same as I will. You’re safe in your room, your bots and mine are charging up, and it’s all alright.”

Tony breathed.

Rhodey traces the outline of the arc-reactor as he closes his eyes and Tony breathed again, much calmer this time.

“I got you, Tones.”

 

* * *

 

The summer flies by with how much time they spend together. Maybe there was something to this whole ‘time flies when you’re having fun’ thing.

They find a nice cafe to meet at most days because going out is always fun and cafes are always enjoyable. Gives them somewhere nice to relax as they discuss their plans and go over projects or general business. Rhodey is 99% certain that the barista is shipping them, which is kinda cute.

One day, when he was bringing Tony’s textbook on advanced engineering back to him, he was cutting through an alley to cut the time, he was already running late, when a couple of dudes, white dudes who looked like they spent their lunch money on pot, and were actually smoking juuls besides the dumpster spotted him.

“Hey! Hey you!”

Rhodey chose to not interact, just clutched the book closer and kept his eyes forward.

“Hey! Look at me when I’m talking to you!” one of them snapped and his air is cut off when they grab the back of his collar and yank him back. He drops his book and his hands fly to his neck, trying to pull the shirt away from his windpipe and shake off the guy grabbing him. He was yanked again by his shirt into the other kid, who laughed in amusement. He shoves forward and Rhodey stumbles into the other.

He is so close to punching one of these motherfuckers it isn’t even funny. He has killed people, he has impaled a man with firm intentions, it wasn’t an accident. It’s only his lack of weapons and his social knowledge of the town that prevents him from wrapping his hand around a neck.

Rhodey is shoved to the ground and keeps his composure. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble-” he started, staring at the ground.

“Aw, the little bitch says he don’t want trouble, but don’t have no manners,” the one in front of him sneered. “Thought I said look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”

Rhodey refused to do so, he pushed himself up and wasn’t surprised to see the bully now squinting at the textbook in his hands. “The fuck’s a boy like you doing with a book like this, you don’t look half this smart.”

“Give that back, it’s mine,” Rhodey said tightly.

“Don’t think so, fag. Saw you and your sissy boy the other day,” he said. “Fuckin’ freak. Gavin and I thought you could use a reminder of your place.”

Is this a race thing  _and_ a gay thing? Rhodey couldn’t quite tell, but it was a gay thing for certain at least. He swiped at the boy’s hands and he held it above his head, laughing down at Rhodey. The boy tossed it to his friend, Gavin, and Rhodey burned with the desire to punch. But he didn’t, because this wasn't a battle. Instead, he let himself be pushed around in order not to escalate the situation. He felt his phone buzz as some point, but it wasn't the time to be dealing with that. He steps forward to try to grab his book so he could just run, but it goes flying again and he has to breathe out to avoid decking the smug look off of the smarmy bastard.

“Hey, assholes!” someone shouted, and Rhodey and the two boys look to see a pair of teens at the other end of the alley. A skinny white kid decked in tats and a black kid with a baseball bat out and at the ready. “Pick on someone your own size or the next thing you’ll be seein’ is stars!”

Gavin and his friend come to a decision and Rhodey was shoved toward the ground harshly, hitting his back and arm against the asphalt. It stings like a motherfucker before dying into an ache and Rhodey hears a clang as he pushes himself up.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “Jackasses.”

“That’s one word for ‘em,” the black kid agreed. “Need a hand?”

“Sure, thanks.” The other boy offered his hand and Rhodey grabs it, helping the boy as he hauls Rhodey up to his feet. Pain sparks up Rhodey’s side and he grimaces, then pullings up his polo to see a bit of a scrape on his side, just a few dots of blood on it. “I’ll be feeling that later,” he sighed.

“Probably, but not too bad if you ice it a bit. Pro’lly just bruise some. My name’s Steve,” the white kid introduced, before jerking his thumb at his friend. “And that’s Sam.”

“Rhodey, or James, but my friends call me Rhodey,” he said. “Nice to meet you. You’ve got great timing.”

“Thanks, we just saw what was happening a bit away and had to come help,” Sam explained as he passed with the bat. He looked into a trash can and reached in, pulling out Tony’s textbook, which not had an orange stain along the pages. Sam grimaced and held it out for Rhodey to take, looking apologetic.

Rhodey sighed and took it, inspecting the rotten smelling mark. “Dammit. This isn’t even my book. It’s my friend’s, I was borrowing it.”

“Can we help? I dunno how to clean books up, but…” Steve tried.

“Nah, it’ll be fine. Tony’ll understand. Tony’s my best friend,” Rhodey explained because they didn’t know who he was or who Tony was from just his first name. “His shit is my shit and vice versa. So really,  _our_  book smells like rotten mango. That’s a fate we’ll both have to deal with.”

“Advanced engineering?” Sam asked, peeking at his book. “Sweet.”

“You a genius type?” Steve asked curiously.

“Yeah,” Rhodey started, trying to figure out the right words to use to not seem like a pompous asshole. “But it’s not like that’s it. I know I’m smart, but I’m not a dick about it. It’s not… something that’s usually relevant.”

Steve and Sam looked like they got it and Sam patted his pockets. “Hey, well, if you ever need a hand, you can message me,” Sam offered, pulling out a little paper. Steve pulled a marker from his own pocket and gave it to Sam with ease. Sam scribbled something down and passed it to Rhodey, who took it mostly out of surprise. “It’d be cool to hang out.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Rhodey said cautiously, looking down at the email address before folding it and putting it in his pocket. “I just got placed here, might be good to have another friend.”

“Shit, you’re a foster kid too? Are we like magnets?” Sam asked rhetorically to the sky. “Steve, we’re magnets.”

Oh. That was pretty interesting. Rhodey knew foster kids, but only ones he had been placed with. He’d never met anyone he wasn’t living with. Rhodey immediately wondered what happened to their parents and he noticed a green wristband on Sam’s arm. X-gene positive. That could be it. Rhodey knew that x-gene positive children were more likely to get abandoned than any other.

Steve, on the other hand, was decked out in tattoos. All down his arm, even on his face despite him clearly being under the age where that would be legal. That shouted ‘prison’ to Rhodey and sparked new questions entirely.

“Well, birds of a feather,” Steve replied. “Flock together.”

“The end of that is ‘until the cat comes,’” Rhodey pointed out, unable to stop himself.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” Steve responds certainly.

Well, he isn’t wrong. “Ain’t that right,” Rhodey said, thinking about Tony.

“Wait a second, did you make a pun off your knuckle tattoos!?” Sam blurted out and Steve threw back his head as he laughed. Rhodey snorted too, but he suddenly remembered that he got a text. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

_Milliondollerbaby: u ok?_

“Shit! I gotta go! Thanks for the save!” He ran down the alley as he waved, keeping the stained textbook close as he ran. “I’ll email later!”

“Bye Rhodey!”

Rhodey dashes around the corner and only slows after he makes it across the busy street beyond the alley.

_Rocketman: shit, sorry, yeah, some assholes started pushing me around and shit, they threw ur textbook in the trash and now it smells liek rotten mango, sorry, im omw_

_Millondollerbaby: omg r u ok?_

_Rocketman: yeah, tbh i thought i was gonna get pumbled, but these two dudes flew in outta nowhere, one with a baseball bat n told the assholes to scram so i guess i got some backup or something now_

_Rocketman: one of them was this skinny white kid that dressed like a straight up punk and had tats even though he’s like our age and the other had the bat and gave me his number, like bro style, not like ur cute style_

_Millondollerbaby: punk isnt dead it just went to play baseball_

Why does he even bother?

_Rocketman: i hate u and love u and that was bad_

He makes it to the cafe in one piece and Tony took one good look at him before packing their shit up and bustling him right out of there. He took the offered lactose-free cookie and his coffee as Tony snatches the book and points toward the nearest clothing store. A menswear store, which means Tony didn’t give a shit about the clothes inside because to him they were bland and tasteless, but meant he was getting Rhodey a new polo and jeans.

“It’s fine,” Rhodey insisted. “It’s just some dirt.”

“You’re bleeding on it. Blood does not come out easy, especially on that color. You are going to clean up and wipe that cut, and you are going to wear the new shirt I’m going to buy you, and we’re going to the park.”

“Um. Okay. Thanks.”

“Of course, beloved. Now, tell me exactly what happened so I can ruin their lives.”

How can Rhodey refuse when Tony called him beloved like that? “Interested, but we probably shouldn’t. Ruin their lives that is, but I’m totally ratting them out to you, don’t worry. So these stupid sons of bitches, smoking like they’re hot shit-”

Later, Rhodey pulls the email out of his pocket and stared at it, considering. He saves it to his contacts and didn't do anything immediately as he thought about the pair of teens. They seemed… genuine. And they were a new connection Rhodey thought he might be able to rely on. It might be beneficial to talk to them, get to know them. They might know the area better, or at least different parts of town better.

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_Hey, it’s Rhodey. You gave me your email earlier today after driving off a pair of bullies? Hope you don’t mind me emailing so soon, but I thought I should get to know the guy who saved my skin today._

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_Yo! Hey, yeah, no problem man always here to be a friend. You all good after that mess? And was ur dude okay with the mango book?_

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_Yes, he was fine with it. Like I said, what’s mine is his and vice versa. He was more worried about me and getting me cleaned up. Anyway, thank you for helping out today, I was close to cold-cocking one of the idiots, but I saw the mindset of the town after that Black Lives Matter protest turning into a shit show and decided ‘better not.’_

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_Tru. I was actually in it, tbh, so was Steve. idiot threw the tear gas back at the cops then saved my skin after I got knocked tf over by some dude. Thats how we met. Cause if theres one thing worse than being black around aggressive cops, it’s being an x-pos black dude around aggressive cops._

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_You’re not wrong. I’ve seen the studies on police brutality. You are, demographically, at most risk for getting beaten to death by cops. Which sucks. Sorry._

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_Yep. so anyway, whatchu doin? Other than emailing me._

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_Not much. Tony lives like two houses over, so I usually go over to hang with him, but there’s only so many times you can do that before foster parents think you’re trying to fuck and they get weird about it._

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_Thats fair. On ur part, not theirs. That reminds me of a vine, actually, u watch vines?_

Rhodey looked over to see Jason watching a compilation of cat vines and felt amused exasperation.

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_In a way._

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_I feel like theres a story behidn that, but thats cool. So u goin to hs this year or nah?_

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_Yes. So is Tony, but technically we don’t have to. Long story, but the gist is that our fosters think it’s best for us socially and to take up time we’d spend just in our rooms._

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_It’d be cool if we had the same classes. U plannin on doin any sports?_

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_I played football last school year. I’d consider doing it again. If only for the exercise. What about you?_

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_track/cross country. I run for fun. Sort of. I’m not allowed to do any contact/extreme sports._

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_That’s lame. Unless you like not doing those things?_

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_I like it fine. I guess its the ‘not having the option’ thing that gets me. Sucks. But whatever i guess. Probably gonna join the GSA club again tho. I’m bi, that’s why I joined. And I like social justice stuff._

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_They have a GSA? That’s dope. I’ll think about that too (I’m gay), but I have other things on my plate so I don’t know. Might mention it to Tony. He’s more interested in that and doesn’t have any after school activities planned (he’s pan and genderfluid, male and agender.) We’re both out so there’s no harm in it. Probably why the fosters think we’re trying to fuck, to be honest._

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_Lol._

They get new suits once JARVIS is finished manufacturing and sends everything from Malibu, so they start going on missions again to clean up the rest of the damage Stane did. It’s easy to pull a tricky maneuver on the fosters, claiming sleepovers at each other's houses and then heading out to do a mission. But that only happens every two weeks or so, so the rest of their time is free to discuss new designs or upgrades for their equipment.

Rhodey carefully keeps up with his conversations with Sam, who is a very good conversationalist and lends an ear whenever Rhodey wanted to vent. He kept his venting carefully censored, he never brought up the missions, the armors, or anything like that, but he had plenty of things to talk about regarding the foster system and, well, losing his parents. But it felt harder to talk about it to someone he didn’t know well. Of course, he got to know Sam better as they talked, but it wasn’t the same as talking to Tony. It was also nice talking to another queer black person about racism and homophobia. Sam was adequately appalled when Rhodey told him about Mickey and then proceeded to rant about toxic masculinity for about thirty minutes. It was great. It was exactly what Rhodey wanted out of a friend.

Tony thought his friendship with Sam was cute and says they should meet up for lunch or something some time. Rhodey said not yet because he was still getting to know the guy. But he does like Sam. So maybe. It might be fun.

 

* * *

 

School started as expected and they went along with business as usual. A lot about being in High School was just getting by, focusing on a task for the bare minimum amount of time it took to complete it and then do whatever entertains him until the bell rings for the next class. He knew that action is petty and bitter, but it makes him feel better, at least.

Rhodey only has one class with Tony, chemistry, fourth period. It was exactly like having a weight taken off of his shoulders. It was great to be able to speed through the work and start talking about theoretical coolant compounds for computers.

“Actually,” someone piped up, the one other person at their table. “You wouldn’t want to mix those particular chemicals because you’d end up making hydrofluoric acid which can quite literally eat through metal.”

It was like a gunshot went off between them, and both of them turned their eyes on the boy, who looked immediately alarmed under the new attention. Tony and Rhodey glanced at each other, grinning, and pressed in,

“You like science?” Tony asked.

The poor son of a gun took off his glasses to polish them, flushing under the attention and visibly shrinking to make himself smaller. “It’s just- just and interest. I- I like biochemistry and physics,” h mumbled.

“You’re amazing and we’re adopting you,” Tony said.

“You can’t just adopt the man Tony, Tesla’s sake,” Rhodey managed.

“I, uh, I am in a group home,” the boy said. “So technically speaking I can be adopted, but nobody has.”

Oh my god, for real, Rhodey thought. This poor guy was in a group home and he was as awkward and nerdy as this? This dude is one sad boy.

“That is the saddest thing I’ve heard all day, yeah, you’re adopted. I’m Tony. This is Rhodey,” Tony introduced them.

“Bruce. Banner,” he replied and Rhodey reached around Tony to shake for the both of them.

“Tony doesn’t like to be handed things, hands included,” Rhodey explained. “But it’s nice to meet you, Bruce.”

“Talk science to us,” Tony requested.

Rhodey leaned in to show examples. “Internal combustion engine.”

“Ooh,” Tony flirted back.

“Cybernetic anthropomorphous machine.”

“Ooh!”

“Uh, anti-electron collisions?” Bruce offered and Tony made an embarrassingly loud noise and swooned. Rhodey laughed, even though he was embarrassed for Tony, and caught him. Bruce became a fast friend mostly because he could keep up with their conversations. Sure, his experience was mostly biology, biochemistry, chemistry and physics-focused, but they could work with that, and where they couldn’t, they could talk about other things.

Bruce had lived in India for a while. He had run away from home, got on a plane, and spent several years living on the streets. He seemed remarkably calm and sedate about it all, which was a little odd, but he was engaged and good company, even though he was shy and awkward. Rhodey could see that he enjoyed having an intelligent conversation and understanding peers, so he hopes the other teen got what he needed to out of the conversations as well.

They sort of ended up adopting him under their wings. He was incredibly small, not physically, but presence wise, and that made him an easy target for bullying. He was the perfect target, and Rhodey understood his reactions, not pushing back, just staying calm and trying to avoid conflict, but that could only help so much in a town like this.

Two weeks into the school year, Sam and Rhodey were talking as usual. Nothing too engaging, so Rhodey could work on some school work and research projects.

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_Hey, so, uh, u wanna come and hang out w/ me and the rest of the gang tomorrow? We’re gonna go get shwarma after school so everybody can meet in one place instead of just in class. It’s kinda a bring ur squad thing because we all need friends and it’s good to know everybody. U know what I mean?_

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_Sure, sounds like fun. I can kinda see where you’re coming from too. It’s good to have a sort of safety net, right? A support system? Especially as a bunch of foster kids. I’ll bring Tony along, of course, but we made friends with this boy named Bruce Banner. He’s in our chemistry class, a genius in his own interests, but he’s pretty shy and an easy target for bullying. I think introducing him to you and everybody else will help him, or at least give him more people that can help him out when there are bullies or at least help him build some confidence. You know?_

_wilsonswarblers@****mail.com_

_Yeah, sure! So, we’re gonna have something like nine total? Steve, you met him, his friend bucky, my friend Nat whos a badass, and the kid I’ve been helping around, matt, I told you about this, I had a whole rant about ableism, you recall. Matt is bringing his friend, Clint. And you’re bringing two others. So it’ll be busy. A couple of us are pitching in cash for the kids w/ no money, so we should all be covered._

_james.rhodes@****mail.com_

_Tony and I can pitch in too, we’ll pay for ourselves in fact. It’s seriously no big deal. I’ll text Tony and get the message to Bruce. Can’t wait!_

 

* * *

 

Meeting at the shwarma joint the next day was an interesting experience. Meeting new people, introducing new friends, recognizing faces in the hallway, all of it was informative. It was enjoyable, all in all. Seeing Sam and Steve again was nice, meeting Matt, who he had heard about, was cool too. Sam and Matt had been spending a lot of time together at school because Sam was asked to be Matt’s guide. As stated in the email, Sam had gone on a rant about the ableist situation because it was seriously concerning, to say the least. Natasha, Sam’s friend, had an odd intensity that Rhodey swore he recognized, but what the hell would he recognize it in her? It was… odd, seeing her eyes, the way she looked at things, hearing the way she spoke and watching how she interacted with the others was just very… odd.

Clint had brightly colored hearing aids in and he had a bit of trouble following the conversations, so he kind of… shut down a bit, just started eating his food, not trying to interject so much, and Rhodey felt bad seeing it. He sort of patted the table, catching Clint’s attention and brought his hands up.

‘You sign?’ he signed.

Clint blinked and looked at Rhodey’s ears immediately. ‘Yes. You sign?’

Rhodey nodded. ‘I learned-’ Rhodey paused as he thought. ‘-to communicate with others close to me.’

‘Very cool. Hard to hear so many people at once. Hearing aids not great. Okay, but not fix hearing.’

‘I understand. No A-S-L?’

‘Learned Signed Exact. No classes. Not born deaf.” Clint paused and his expression showed discomfort. ‘Injured,’ he said at last. ‘Learned from internet and books.’

‘Ok. I learned same way. A-S-L probably easier.’

‘Agreed.’

‘How you know M-A-T-T?’

Clint considered how to answer, which told Rhodey that there was a whole story behind it. -We are both garbage.-

Rhodey starred in utter confusion and Clint snorted. Well as strange as the interaction was, it was still really enjoyable. But there was one person Rhodey did not connect with. Bucky, who was friends with Sam, Steve, and Natasha, rubbed Rhodey the wrong. There was something behind him, behind the way he looked so nervous and hesitant. He was straight up shifty looking and Rhodey didn’t like that, but the guy wasn’t all that bad, not if he was friends with Steve and Sam.

Well, the good thing is now that he had more friends, hesitantly at least, he’d be able to get past the school day not bored out of his mind. There is that. Besides that, Tony seemed to like the new crowd, so that’s great too.


	6. It's the hard knock life for us...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Instructor sighs. “I see. Well. You performed adequately during the demonstration. I am prepared to overlook it for now, but don’t let it affect you or you will be replaced, Natasha. You are good, but the Red Room does not breed weakness.”
> 
> “Yes, Instructor.”
> 
> “You will be dismissed after your punishment. You can receive your debriefing packet at the door.”
> 
> She expects a punch to the stomach, or blow to the face, but instead electricity races through her stomach and explodes behind her eyes as the cattle prod is jammed into her torso. She drops as fire burns in her abdomen and she coughs out blood from where she bit her tongue. On her hands and knees, and blinks past the fresh burst of pain that washes over her when her hair is grabbed and her head pulled up.
> 
> “You’re a clever one, Natasha, and you have the makings of a great Widow, but you get distracted by these meaningless things. Your toys, your habits, your /boy./”
> 
> Natasha looks back into her face.
> 
> “I simply hope you overcome this or learn better soon. Dismissed.”

* * *

 

Natasha had been with the Red Room since she was five years old.

She remembers almost nothing of her previous life. Just… brief flashes. She remembers a bed, a soft bed and softer blankets, fur, she thinks. She remembers a smiling bearded face, a deep chuckle as she pulled at rough whiskers and deep Russian exclamations. She remembers boots by the door, and snow, and sitting on a couch tucked against a tall slim body, playing with red hair that wasn’t her own. She remembers a fond kiss on her temple.

And she remembers harsh words and cut off noises of pain, thin noises from sleek guns, a hand over her mouth, a strong arm around her body taking her from her home. Red blood in white snow from a fallen body, a forest around them, and a car with the trunk open.

And darkness.

So no, she doesn’t remember much. But she does remember the cold cell and the harsh hands that twisted and hurt her until she submitted to orders, commands. She remembers concrete floors and metal bars, and bruises and scrapes and feeling worn and weary as she curled up in the corner of a dark room. She remembered cold water blasted from hoses, she remembered tiny cages and being cramped and stuck and aching. She was disciplined with pain over and over until she could recite a coda with firm belief and honesty and didn’t think of big hands picking her up or cool green eyes fanned by long tidy lashes.

When she forgot her past life, when she was told to forget her past life, when the loyalty, or at least, enough loyalty was ingrained in her, training started. The training was vigorous, harsh, cold, and mechanical, violent in its intensity. Their heads were shaven, they wore plain matching outfits that were prison uniforms in their own way. They had order and discipline and the Instructors made sure none of the girls were given individuality; they were shaped into perfection before they began instruction, to be sure their effort wouldn’t be wasted until that point.

All training could ever be associated with was pain, strain, stress, and punishment. Reward systems were disapproved of, they bred weakness and the Black Widows were not meant to be weak.

And Natasha was not weak.

She was trained to be smart, strong, ruthless, efficient, agile, and fast. Never weak.

If she was, she would be a failure and they would get rid of her by the pecking order they encouraged and goaded on. There was no emotion, no feeling, no remorse, no regret allowed. The knowledge that the weakest link was replaceable hung over each Widow’s head, some handled it better than others, knowing themselves not to be this link, but the others, girls who fought more with words and knives, challenged each other to push the last into this position.

At the top were the pack leaders, and at the bottom were scavengers who eyed the others with hungry glints in their eyes, a pack of bladed wolves that bit and tore and knew that pain was order and control. The Red Room was a harsh institution, a harsh environment. The practice was difficult and grueling and Natasha had calluses, scars, bruises, and healed bones to prove it.

On top of fighting and training to be efficient fighters and obedient soldiers, each Widow was trained in ballet. In Russia, this training, the fighting, the order, the ballet, was taught in a cold facility where they lived like they were machines, and machines they were molded to be. They did not perform their ballet, they just practiced endlessly in frigid rooms, unable to complain because that showed weakness and Widows were _not weak_. The air bit like needles and the sweat on their brows was not something they were bothered with. Their motions perfect, in unison, and precise.

In schooling, it was the same. They sat perfectly upright in matching desks and chairs, hands flat on the desk, eyes on the board. Any straying from the position was met with a beating. Metal hitting skin, a blade against flesh. Injuries were untreated until class was dismissed and desks left bloody. If a person turned to watch the punishment, they were punished likewise. It was fear and pain and control.

Self-control was part of that list.

At night, they were in one room together, one hand handcuffed to the bed to prevent escape, to teach control. The beds were hard and uncomfortable, the pillows flat, the sheets thin and scratchy, but as soon as the lights were out and the children, silent in the room, were allowed to rest, exhausted bodies closed their eyes to sleep, the conditions in which they slept no longer mattering.

The Red Room gave trained each Widow how to use weapons, how to fight, how to spy and lie and smile with false sweetness. Natasha was trained in every form of espionage they taught, how to use weapons, how to pick locks, how to remain undetected. She was trained with hard steel and piercing icy looks filled with disapproval and contempt. She was trained not to show emotion. She was trained to not show pain. She was trained how not to be a person. She was taught how to act and pretend to be something or someone else. She was taught how to be a lie and be forgotten just as easily.

When she was ten, she killed her first man.

It was her first official mission, to intercept a weapons trade, to steal the weapons for the Red Room and weaken competition, but Natasha got caught, she was ten after all, still weak after five years in the Red Room, always the underdog, the easy target, and her captors tortured her. The cigarette burns along her spine were scarred into her skin and hurt, but she did not flinch or cry and she said nothing. It was hell to sit in that chair for hours with a back that felt like it was burning, but she did it.

She managed to escape, of course, and take out seven of her captors as she did so. She remembered a knife in her hand, then in a neck, blood spurting into her even before she yanked it back out to throw it at the next man. She remembers taking a gun and with brutal efficiency, sending one bullet into the head of each of the remaining men.

The Instructors picked her up an hours journey north from that location.

She was soaked in blood, was fighting back tears from the pain that had only gotten worse as she went, and she could not let go of the knife she was holding. She was dragging a sled of automatic weapons behind her because Natasha had a job to do and it was always worse to leave a mission incomplete, and her back was on fire.

After her first mission, it was safe to say that Natasha had different feelings about this place. She felt… conflicted by it. The men, they were fighting for something they believed in, not something they were ordered to do and it struck her. She wondered if she wanted to do what they ordered her to do and her stomach had dropped when she found the answer negative. But when she tried to run away, she was… punished. She would admit that she was nothing against the Instructors when they joined forces. They were unstoppable, coordinated, analyzing, intelligent, highly trained, and prepared. Despite all her skills, she was found in six hours flat.

She was brought back kicking and screaming and was punished thoroughly. They broke every other finger on each hand, so she had, in total, five broken fingers, but no two of the same, left her locked in a chair for ten hours, handcuffs digging into her wrists and ankles, and when she stopped struggling, they burned their insignia right between her shoulder blades, over the other scars- a tidy little hourglass, a red scar about two inches tall, and pain she felt all the way into her heart and chest.

So she had never run away again. Next time, they’d catch her and kill her and really, it wasn’t worth it without the assurance that the Instructors wouldn't murder her when or if they found her. Recruits are handcuffed to their beds, but after that night she no longer had to be. Both Natasha and the instructors know that she was aware of the fact that if she tried again, she would be found killed. Though the others were mildly envious of her, they saw her punishment for her transgression. She was forced, for the next week, to go through all activities without any clothes on, so they could see the brutality they burned or beat into her skin. They saw her struggle with finger casts, how she danced with no coverings on her feet, leaving blood on the floor after each intense session that she was also forced to clean up herself as well as treat her own wounds. They saw her try not to shiver in the cold and they held no qualms targeting her exposed areas in combat training.

So they didn’t attempt to run away, even knowing the vague freedom she now had.

But this freedom, this punishment, meant they had her loyalty as they could get it, with pain and control, and as she had some of the highest marks in the espionage area, they decided to send her to the sleeper cell in America. A strict ballet studio in the middle of a medium-sized, forgettable city in the state of New York. After being swiftly transported, following her punishment, she was given a tour of the facility to know to which classrooms she should report to. Finally, she was allowed to rest and directed to her room.

She was given her own room, a large room with a high ceiling and a large window against the wall opposite the door, a new set of clothing, new orders, and new Instructors, and a new identity.

After receiving the instruction on her identity here, she smiled as she was told to and repeated the words.

“I’m one of 28 young ballerinas with the Red Room. The training is hard, but the victory of performance and the happiness of my parents more than makes up for it.” If questioned on where or who her parents were, she would reply that they lived in Russia and sent her to this American boarding school for a better life and opportunity.

Everything was a cover, and they expected all Widows to keep that cover. They performed in front of people on stage, they sent the oldest Widows to public school to gain insight into the reality they were separated from, and they trained in secret.

Natasha arrived with nothing except the clothes on her back. In Russia, this was normal. They were not permitted to have possessions, as they were not people and didn’t need them. In America, having to maintain this cover and be later prepared to face a life of materialism in the real world, she received 20 American dollars each week as part of a finance lesson that would expand over the years she stayed at the facility. She was to save the money for her future, to pay legitimately for things in case it became necessary to avoid arousing suspicion when they were officially deployed.

She saw other empty rooms. She saw blank faces and loyalty through pain and control and wanted none of it. But they had her loyalty through fear and did not protest any of it. Not verbally, not physically, but mentally.

On her first assigned mission from the Red Room out of America, she took out her marks and as she passed the child's room, the child who was away at a real boarding school, she looked in her room. Natasha found a small toy gun, about the side of an index card, that shot foam darts. It was so unlike the guns she was issued, the cold heavy metal with the safety, the smell of gunpowder and oil, and she put it in her waistband. She took a handful of the darts and put them in her pockets.

It was not detected and she hid it in her room, occasionally taking pot shots at the vaulted ceiling above as she lay on her bed, catching the darts before they hit her or the bed. And… she kept doing that. She would take things. She stole from toy stores she passed on the way to or from her hits, she would take things from houses, from children's rooms, from her marks.

The things accumulated and she carefully let one thing out in the open. She left a small bobblehead on the window sill. After waiting seven days to see the reaction from the Instructors, which was disapproval but not punishment, she left something else out, a cat beanie baby. Still hesitant, she found nothing. She put a poster on the wall. She was instructed that her exploits could pose a danger to the facility. She could get caught stealing. Natasha replied that if she was caught stealing, that would make her a poor Widow, unworthy of her position at the Red Room, and they would reasonably leave her in prison or eliminate her. So she would not get caught.

She was subjected to a water punishment, but the things were not taken away and the subject not brought up again.

Natasha went for broke and bought a chair. A nice recliner from a shoddy thrift shop. I was difficult to get back, but once again, they did nothing, and from that point on, she did not hide what she stole, bought, collected, or snatched. It was not an issue that majorly impacted missions and did not interfere with the other’s ability to perform. They continued to be blank machines as Natasha stole stuffed animal pillows and refused to give up the comforts she earned and took for herself. She argued that just because she stole expensive soft blankets did not mean she was soft because she could take a punishment as well as any other girl.

They made her prove it, and though she was sore and aching and exhausted for days afterward, she went through with the promise and was able to keep her comforts.

She grew out her hair, like the other girls. It was red and wavy, and she admired the sheen it had when she was brushing it. They did not have mirrors at the Red Room, likely to eliminate a sense of identity, she knew how dehumanization worked as they were taught methods of information extraction, but it didn’t stop her from staring at still puddles or shiny windows or the mirrors on cars.

It was hard to see a person when the green eyes that stared back at her were empty and blank, but when she swept a strand of hair back and stuck out her tongue, she could almost pretend.

Though they served bland meals that only gave them their necessary nutrients, an unnatural meal to be blunt, she developed tastes for other things as she stole food from kitchens and stores. Her favorite foods included blueberries. Blueberry muffins, blueberries, chocolate covered blueberries, and blueberry pie. She liked fruit, but blueberries would always be at the top of her list.

The other Widows sensed that she was the weakest link and began to target her accordingly, to get her to slip and be eliminated. That only told Natasha that she was stronger than them. To be affected by the circumstances of another was weak and Natasha was not weak enough to show jealousy.

But she wasn’t stupid enough to challenge all 27 Widows in the sleeper cell. No, she stayed focused and kept herself ready for action, ready for any challenge, ready for any fight, any attempt on her life. She laid traps in her room, she started stealing weapons from homes, and she trained and practiced just as hard, if not harder, than the other Widows. She took punishments with as much grace as possible and stayed emotionless and immobile. Another Widow broke into her room only once, stealing one of the stuffed animals she kept on her bed, and setting fire to it in the cafeteria, watching Natasha for a reaction.

That specific stuffed animal was taken from a toy store. It was a pink puppy with blue eyes and she admired its colors and thought it was soft and plush. She watched it burn down to nothing without moving.

She blinked slowly at the Widow and cocked her head. [Do you think I have an emotional attachment to a stuffed animal?]

[Yes,] she replied. [Why else would you take it?]

[Because,] Natasha said. [It’s fun. And you destroying it just confirms my suspicions that you are emotionally invested in proving yourself instead of simply doing it. By showing that you need to prove yourself by challenging me shows that you are too weak to avoid letting other people manipulate you. It’s a shame. And you’re such a good combatant too.]

All 26 of the other Widows turned their eyes on the girl, who was making an attempt to look neutral, but it seemed difficult, there was a tightness around her eyes. A bell rang, signaling that lunch was over and they immediately abandoned all line of thought and questions surrounding the incident. The ash was cleared away. Natasha stole an identical stuffed animal, but it was not the same. She put it in a drawer and left it there.

As the years passed, her tastes changed, her collection of items changed, she learned to get rid of things she no longer used or wanted. It was hard, but they were necessary lessons. She trained herself to not react when the others managed to take something and either challenge her with it or destroy it. She learned to keep the things she loved most hidden.

The other girls showed no desire for more like she did. She was watching, hopelessly hoping one of them would take an interest in whatever it was Natasha was trying to achieve, but she didn’t expect it. They were taken as babies, mostly, or at just a few years old, one or two. Five was pushing it but they believed she would be an excellent candidate and took her anyway. They never knew, or never remembered, a mother's affection, a father’s amused encouragement. They knew hard blades, bullets, and brutality. They were everything the Red Room Instructors wanted.

Even though Natasha wasn’t what they wanted, she was hard to beat and her defensive walls were made of steel. Nothing could get to her, not even the assassins around her. Why? Because she didn’t give them a chance to. It was simple; never have a moment of weakness. The greatest threat to her was when she had to sleep, so she got a crash test dummy to tuck in at night and created a cabinet-like slot in the wall. Her secret room was attached to a panel in the wall, right next to her bed, part of the wainscoting. After neatly cutting it out, she put hinges on the inside so that it would open inward and put her right in front of the ladder she made. She could close this panel near the floor, lock it, and then climb a ladder up to the sleeping space near the ceiling. It was made so that she could dive for it quickly and hide.

Her shoulders brushed either side of the wall, it was almost a tight squeeze, but she could fit. There was also a hatch up where this space near the ceiling was, in case she had to fire at an intruder. It was the perfect place to sleep and she had put sensors _everywhere_ , so, if someone snuck in to try to get rid of her, she’ll be awakened by a silent alarm. Well... silent to them.

From there she could shoot them with the revolver she kept on her when she slept through the hatch and of course she realized her location could be revealed, so she put plated metal on each side of the wall and the floor in case they fired back or went to the next room to shoot from there.

As added protection for general day-to-day activities in her room, she had guns duct taped under the desk and bed, knives in the couch cushions, rifles clearly strapped to the walls, and one beside her music/entertainment system. Oh, and she had boarded up her window, all except for the top arced part to let in natural light, which she simply glued paper over. She didn’t want someone taking shots from her outside, but she did like to see sunlight. However, she did add hinges to the lower half and a lock that locked from the inside. That way she could unlock it, open the window, and go out.

She had put a poster of Justin Bieber on it and used it as knife-throwing practice.

The other girls showed disgust at the personalization of the quarters. Theirs were all identical, bland, gray, and boring, militarily kept quarters. They had no decorations, no personal possessions beyond some weapons, and a bed. Oh, and the dresser. That was it. It was sad to look at. Natasha had pity for them. Pity that they never had a nerf gun to fire at the ceiling and catch the darts.

She still watched for their weaknesses to see if any had the potential to be like her, to want something more, to take things as their own. She would like someone who didn’t try to kill her, someone she could connect with. Was that called a friend, is that what friends were? People who didn’t try to kill you and liked similar things? She wasn’t sure. It didn’t sound quite right, but it was the closest thing she could hope for.

Every day began at four AM. They woke up, had a protein shake, trained for an hour, ate a small breakfast, and then had classes. Lessons were straightforward and informative. They were still required to keep their eyes locked on the instructor or the board. No speaking, no moving, and no inattentive students. Punishment for failure to conform with the standards was a swift punch or the student would be forced to stand up against the board as the Instructor continued, the eyes of every other Widow on her. Sometimes, they were also made to strip, but that was reserved for the students who still found the act embarrassing. The rest, nudity didn’t affect. The body was a weapon and nobody cared if a weapon was stripped.

Natasha wished she could act inattentive or slouch from her straight-backed position, but she knew that would be a poor choice and she wanted neither a punishment nor to stand and be humiliated in front of the other 27.

When they weren’t being instructed, they were training to use weapons, drilled in their languages, sparing, or working on espionage skills.

Ballet took place just before lunch.

The only part of the training she enjoyed was the ballet, despite all the harsh training that went with it, the memories of blood on the floor. The feeling of hidden strength in her limbs, the elegance of performance, the emotion and devotion the craft took. It felt right, and when she remembered being pressed against a slim body on a couch, playing with red hair, she wondered if her mother ever danced. If she concentrates hard enough, she can remember bare feet on a kitchen floor and music playing. She can’t remember if the feet were moving or not.

After lunch there was more combat training followed by more regular schoolwork. Usually there would be more ballet training followed by a skills assessment, which was actually just sparing until you defeat everyone or are defeated yourself followed by dinner and free time (which just meant you could choose in what you wanted to train in, meant to give stragglers a chance to fix errors without the threat of punishment or humiliation from Instructors), but occasionally there was a showcase instead.

The Red Room was primarily funded by the government, the remnants of the KGB, or by its own volition, but allowing people to purchase their services allowed them to get more money and gain important contacts for the future.

During showcases the girls showed off their talent by group level, demonstrating their espionage abilities, weapon skillmanship, and sparing to show their ability to handle any hand to hand combat situation. Their viewers, a group of businessmen, politicians, or rich people, watched with keen interest.

This time two paid for an assassination. One had paid for an old ‘friend’ to get a wake-up call about some money they owned. Natasha was assigned that mission. She was equipped and debriefed.

The target was a drug lord who owed this rich man money for, well, drugs. The target was going to the circus in Iowa this weekend and Natasha was supposed to shake him up a little bit. Needless to say, Natasha wasn’t impressed but she’d rather this than having to down a target again. She was flown out the next day with a bag of clothes and weapons.

Her plan was simple enough; tie him up, give him the rundown, and threaten to feed him to a lion. Or a tiger. It sounded fun and would probably convince the man to give it up.

On the day of the circus’ first showing, she dressed like a real teenager. Knee high socks, cute skirt, clean t-shirt. It was nice, wearing real clothes instead of their standard uniform. She strapped a knife to her thigh and a gun to the other, then wrapping high quality rope around her torso for later use. She stuffed a syringe of ‘Sleepy Time Tea’, as the chemical was so named, in her bra before she headed out. Natasha paused to grab a black wig, fitting it easily, before doing one final check and leaving the motel.

She hailed a taxi and paid swiftly. After arriving, she bought a ticket to the show and kept an eye out for her mark. Luckily, the tattoo on his neck wasn’t easy to forget. It’s some kind of pin-up girl surrounded by the Noah’s Ark amount of cartoon animals. It looked bad, to say the least, and made him very easy to recognize in the crowd of people waiting to see the performance. Natasha sat by him, behind him to be exact, and took her time with this mission.

She actually enjoyed the show. The lions, tigers, elephants, and horses put on a funny act, and the clowns did a good routine. The acrobatics crew was Natasha's favorite. Right behind the marksmen, that was.

One was an older man, in a neat cartoonish suit. The other was a boy Natasha’s age. It’s clear to see that the boy was infinitely better, making marks that the elder didn’t even try. Perfect bullseyes standing on the backs of galloping horses, upside down on the trapeze. From great distances, blindfolded. He takes apples off models heads, hands, and extinguishes a cigar from the trapeze.

Natasha hangs onto every second. He had such… life in him, such an expressive face, such accuracy. He was a flashy showman, with grand gestures and showy motions, and he seemed to actually be having fun. The boy caught Natasha’s eye at some point and cocked his head at her. She smiled at him as it seemed to be expected and he winked back.

When the show ended and people a were filtering out, Natasha delicately pricked her target in the side with the needle and administered the Sleepy Time Tea. He was out before he felt the needle and Natasha caught him before he slumped and hurt himself or brought other people to awareness of the situation.

As people left, Natasha waited with the guy’s snoring form. Soon only the crew remained and a man, noticing them, walked over.

“Everything all right here, miss?” he asked politely.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s just my dad has narcolepsy. The doctors say to just let him ride it out. I hope it’s not a bother!” she adds. “But I gotta stay with him and nobody’s supposed to touch him.”

“Oh,” the guy said. “Sure. We’re clearing out for a break in about ten minutes. Think he’ll be awake before then?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes it lasts an hour,” she complained. “But I won’t touch anything, I’ll just stay here and walk him out when he wakes up. Is that okay, sir?”

The guy sighed. “Okay, sure. Just don’t touch the lions, okay?” he joked.

Natasha giggled childishly. “Drat, foiled again.”

The man laughs and goes to help his crew members. True to his word, they’re gone in ten minutes and Natasha goes to work. She strings him up from the supports, upside down, and checks her watch. He’ll wake up in… three… two… one.

His eyes open.

Natasha watches passively, standing with a knife in hand and watching him as he realizes what’s happening.

“George O'Malley. I’m here to tell you that you owe someone a lot of money,” she said and his eyes widen as they go to the knife.

“Oh, shit,” he said, struggling.

“Mr. Borgetski wants his money delivered to him within three days and he sent me to bring the message. The next person he sends will leave a body for the morgue,” she informed him. She tapped his chin with the knife. “It will not be painless. I’m sure you’re familiar with Mr. Borgetski’s work. The next person might bleed you dry. Or she’ll just beat you to death. A couple of these-” she slams her fist into his face like he’s a punching bag, watching him swing and groan, blood dripping from his nose and eye swelling shut. “Until the brain damage kills you.”

“Tell dat f-ucker dat he ain’t gedding his mondey,” he slurred in response. She might have broken his nose. He spits out some blood and tips his head back to try to blow some blood out of his nose. Natasha takes a step back to avoid getting any on herself. “He fuckden owed me dat shit.”

Natasha cocked her head at him, watching him until he looks nervous, and walked over to the tiger pen, deftly unlocking the door and letting out a single tigress. Curious, the cat prowls toward the beaten man, who starts struggling for real. The cat swipes at him and he screams.

“Oday! Oday! Come on! I dun wanna die in fudding _Iowa_!” h spits.  “I’ll pay da fucder back! Oday?!”

Natasha pulls her gun and fires at the ground. The noise scares the tiger and she runs off. Natasha watches her go and almost sighs. That will be annoying to put back, but she also didn’t want to be eaten or attacked by the tiger.

“I’m glad we can agree on things,” Natasha says and walks over to where the rope was secured. She didn’t let him down, though, she pulled it so he was dangling about twenty feet in the air. “I’m sure someone will let you down eventually,” she says. “Don’t _hang_ around too long.”

He gives her an incredulous stare and Natasha leaves to go get the tiger or at least let someone know about it. She could play the _‘It got out itself, I didn’t know tigers were so smart, do they do that a lot?’_ routine. It works on stupid people and, well, it’s a circus.

Was that rude? That was in fact rude. Okay, circuses have lovely people, many of whom are certainly smart, but sometimes dumb teens sell popcorn for a quick buck.

After a while of fruitless searching, Natasha gave up. Since the circus had been pretty much abandoned, she stole some soda, a stick of rock candy, and went into a deserted tent to kill time simply because she wanted to. It wasn’t often that she was given the opportunity to take time to do what she wanted. She simply had to be back tomorrow and she intended to enjoy the time she had to not be afraid of a punishment or the others.

After ten minutes, the goddamn tiger walks in with its mouth crammed full of a multicolored mess of cotton candy,  half of it just sticky colored drool. It looks like it slaughtered a cloud. Natasha watched it consume it’s fluffy kill in the middle of the area and eyed it. Stupid tiger. It didn’t even go after the drumsticks or meat-based products that they sell. She pulled off her wig and dropped it in the bleachers with a huff, finishing her treat and watching the large cat tear up the cotton candy.

A noise to the right of her made her aware of a presence, but she didn’t act on it, simply continued to observe the tiger and listen to the footsteps.

Then she moved, so fast that the boy, a scruffy looking blonde, the performer, the archer, couldn’t do anything but blink up at her in surprise. She wasn’t here to kill anybody so she just raised her fist ready to strike.

His hands come up and she eyed him, but the boy didn’t fight or push her off. Instead, he signed at her and it took her a second to recognize that it wasn’t quite ASL but shared enough signs that she could understand with her training in ASL. He was hearing impaired, maybe deaf, which explained both the motions and how he was so noisy when he approached.

He gave a thumbs up and an awkward ‘sorry.’

She considered him and then slid off his chest, hands coming up to reply. (For what?)

(Interrupting alone time?)

Oh. The boy thought she needed a minute and hid out. Okay. Good. (Why are you here?)

(I’m following N-A-G-I-A.) He points after the tigress. “Oh, fuck,” he said aloud, though it sounds vaguely off.

(What?) She didn’t turn because it could be a distraction.

(She’s gone. She’s eating all the cotton candy and scaring people off.)

Natasha felt vaguely guilty. She didn’t want for that happen and she didn’t want to inconvenience the boy. She just wanted the cat to scare the target. (I did that. Sorry.)

(You let her out?!)

(Yes. I wanted her to scare a man.)

(Why?!)

(My reasons.)

(Well, if you let the tiger just go free, what did you do with the guy?!)

(Let’s just say he’s hanging around. I’m gonna go. Thanks for the chat.)

(Wait!)

She pauses.

(I’m C-L-I-N-T. What’s your name?)

(N-A-T-A-S-H-A. See you later C.) It was probably a bad idea to give names, but she didn’t expect the boy to really remember her or single her out for some cops.

And she left, fully aware that she probably won’t see Clint again. On her way out, neatly avoiding the police, she snagged one of his posters and folded it up. She tucked it in the elastic of her skirt and hotwired a car to get back to the motel.

* * *

Two days later Natasha taped the poster to the back of her door. She stepped back to admire her work and then nods to herself. With that settled, she unpacked, returned her issued weapons, and hurried to class.

* * *

Natasha loves her sound system.

Between their weekly allowance of twenty dollars and Natasha’s stolen money, purchasing it wasn’t a problem. She used that money for all the big things, everything that would be hard to steal during normal business hours. She had all her speakers and music players, as well as a laptop she hid up in her wall with her nest of blankets.

Now, there had been some trial and error with just how loudly she could listen to music, but in the end, the instructors didn’t care as long as it neither disrupted her or the others. So Natasha argues that she should be able to play it however loud as she desired, because if they were put off by loud music, they were insufficient and unreliable assassins. What if a mark was at a rave? Or a loud party?

She was punished, but they agreed it was a decent test of their management of emotion and distraction.

 _“Puttin’ my defenses up!”_ Natasha shouted over the booming music. _“‘Cause I don’t wanna fall in love. If I ever did that, I think I’d have a heart attack!”_

She was wearing a blue feather scarf around her neck, cheap sunglasses on her face, and she was dancing on her table, dead center of the room with two guns strapped to her for when a Black Widow tried to kill her because of the volume. She also has a bullet proof vest on and a Coke-Zero in hand. None of it matched with her outfit, but that didn’t matter.

She was _awesome_ and felt _fabulous._

Unfortunately, it seemed like the other girls had given up on killing her in her room by this time, but Natasha has one more trick up her sleeve before she confirms that. At least, to test that theory.

She switches songs from across the room and swings her hips to the funky 80’s jam.

 _“We're no strangers to lo~ve. You know the rules~ and so do I!”_ Natasha belts out, as she dances like nobody’s watching, swinging her hips and shuffling along. Doing that dumb ‘towel drying my back’ maneuver that people do with their hands. _“A full commitment's what I'm thinking of~. You wouldn't get this from any other guy!”_

The door opened and Natasha had a shotgun trained on the intruder before she even knew who it was.

The Instructor stares at her tiredly. “You are very lucky you are the best Black Widow in this facility, Natasha. Otherwise, you would have been disposed of simply because of this.”

Natasha nods. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment. There is something wrong with you.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, starting to dance again because she is really feeling it and rebellion lives in her blood. _“Never gonna give you up! Never gonna let you down! Never gonna run around and desert you! Never gonna make you cry! Never gonna say goodbye! Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you!”_

The Instructor swears in Russian loudly, angrily and Natasha starts spinning en pointe. Ballet and 80s tunes did not match, but Natasha didn’t care. The Instructor leaves.

Take On Me starts a few moments later and Natasha turns the gun so she’s singing into the handle. _“We're talking away. I don't know what I'm to say- I'll say it anyway. Today's another day to find you, shying away. I'll be coming for your love, okay?_

_“Ta-ke oo-on me! (Take on me)! Take me on, (take on me)! I'll be gone, in a day or two!”_

Natasha switches back to the modern music after a bit, putting her hands over her head and swinging her hips again. Okay, when it wasn’t ballet, she was limited in her dancing skill, but she loves this kind of dancing too. It feels free and careless, fun and rhythmic.

_“It's going down~ I'm yelling timber! You better move! You better dance! Let's make a night, you won't remember! I'll be the one, you won't forget.”_

She vocalizes with Kesha and when Pitbull starts rapping, she changes her stance completely, excessively using her hands and doing that stupid half squat thing that rappers do in music videos.

 _“The bigger they are, the harder they fall. This biggity boy's a diggity dog. I have 'em like Miley Cyrus, clothes off, twerkin’ in their bras and thongs. Timber!”_ She dances, spinning with the music. “Face _down, booty up, timber! That's the way we like the what? Timber! I'm slicker than an oil spill, she say she won't, but I bet she will, timber!”_

She does this until curfew. She has one assassination attempt that was foiled before they stepped through the door because they brought a knife to a gunfight.

* * *

Wearing a grey hoodie, black jeans, a black bookbag, and red converse, Natasha pops her gum and peers at the skateboard place. She’s looked it up online and it interested her because they have an indoor park in the back of the store and they sell skateboards and equipment in the front. It was a good place because none of the Widows would enter and no long-range attacks could be attempted.

Lately she’s been attempting to be a person a little more, in preparation for going to high school eventually, and she knew that teenagers often had a thing with skateboards. That lead to some research and explained her presence outside the shop. She was determined to figure this out. To be frank, she has no idea how this is going to work out, but she’s sure as hell going to try. Plus, with gymnastics training, amazing balance and grace, a superior learning curve, she bets she can learn at least the basics in a week.

After that internal pep talk, she walks inside and starts looking around. As she browses, she realized her hair was annoying her and flips off the hood long enough to put her hair in a bun. She pops her gum again and finds the perfect board. It’s got cartoonish blueberries on the bottom in a symmetrical pattern and she likes it immensely. She grabs it and finds the price reasonable. She next finds a helmet that fits, some elbow and knee pads, and takes it up to the cashier. She puts her stuff down then grabbing a four pack of simple black wheels and a tool kit.

The guy looks at her. “Old pro, or new skater?” he asks as he rings her up.

“New. I want to learn. Is there any chance somebody is willing to run me through the basics here?”

The guy considers. “113.45 is your total. And, if you wanna go back, look for the guy with a blue shirt, tattoo sleeves on both arms, and in the helmet with infinite stickers on it. This board is good to go too. It doesn’t need any oiling or anything.”

Natasha hands over six twenties. “Thank you.”

“Wave him down and tell him Rick sent you,” he adds. “And he swears a lot, but he loves kids. Not in the weird way, like the ‘I’d foster eighty of you fuckers if I didn’t have a criminal record’ kind of way. Don’t discourage it.”

“Got it.”

“Here’s your change.” He hands over 6.55 in a five, a dollar, two quarters and a nickel. Natasha shoves it in her pocket.

“Also, criminal record?”

“He beat up a child abuser. Once or twice.”

“Okay, cool.”

She puts the tool kit and wheels in her backpack, walking to the back of the shot and through the double doors into the massive skating area. She whistles lowly and pops her gum, impressed.

She watches a few guys, and girls, pass by, doing flips and neat tricks, cheering each other on or making impressed exclamations. At last she sees her guy, blue shirt, tattoos, stickered helmet, and she waves at him with both arms and he leans on his board, gliding over to her.

“Hey, I’m Tom, what can I do ya for?” the guy smiles brightly. He’s got a thin face, a nice five o’clock shadow, blue eyes. His hair is sticking out from under his helmet and his teeth are a bit yellow, but all clean and straight.

“Rick sent me,” she offered and held up the board. “I want to learn.”

If possible, his grin got brighter. “Yay!” Tom said, adorably. He was incredibly childish but clearly passionate. He ran her through the basics, how to ride, how to get some speed, how to turn, and how to stop. She managed with minimal difficulty. It was a lot of fun though. She liked the speed, the maneuvers, the feel of wheels under her feet.

After some time, she checked her stolen watch and started packing up. “Tom, thank you. I’ll be back tomorrow. Will you be here too?”

“Yeah, bro, every day after six.”

“Awesome,” Natasha said, giving him a thumbs up. “See you then.”

Natasha rode her board through the city to the Red Room facility and snuck back inside. She put the board and bag under her bed, changed, and climbed up to her loft/locker, getting settled in her cramped nest.

“I’m cool. So cool,” she says, thinking about interacting with other, normal, people. She was cool now. She liked cool music, she rode a skateboard, she was a badass. Laying down, she put the earbud connected to the sensor system in her ear and looked at the plastic glowing stars on the ceiling. They weren’t glowing, not enough light, but when she held a penlight to the one right over her head for a minute it was pleasantly radioactive green and she drifted off, thinking of skateboarding again.

* * *

She and Tom skate together every day. He’s a proud mama ducking, really, grinning when she matches him movements and following his patterns.

Her birthday, as she was born November 22, 1999, passes in a boring manner. She’s fourteen, which is nearly ¾ the way to twenty, and it’s boring. It’s the same as any other day. Fighting, training, schoolwork, boring. That wasn’t unusual, but she has always managed to do one nice thing for herself on this day, and she intends to do it again this year.

After a disappointing day, despite knowing that Black Widows don’t do birthdays, Natasha sneaks out, buys a chocolate cake with blueberry decorations, paper plates, and plastic forks, and goes to the skate shop. She plops the giant thing on the front desk and looks at Rick.

“It’s my birthday. Have some cake,” she commands, offering it.

“Alright,” Rick says, nodding in a way that makes Natasha think he had an argument but abandoned it.

She serves everybody skating as well, enjoying the visual of people doing ollies with a plate in one hand and a fork in the other. She sits on top of the tallest ramp and eats the last fourth all by herself, feeling bloated and gross by the end of it. It’s ruining her strict diet but Natasha doesn’t care. It’s a better birthday than any of the ones she’s had in… ever at the Red Room. She has always managed to do something nice for herself, but this time she has also done something nice for people she knows and likes.

She finds herself wondering about that Clint boy she met a while ago as she pops a blueberry in her mouth. When his birthday was, what he was doing at the circus. Stuff like that.

Tom sits next to her, skateboard over his lap. “What’s up with what?”

“I’m going to need more than that, Tom,” she responds easily and tilts her head to let Tom know she was joking.

“Well, cake. And no-” he makes a motion. “Woulda thought you’d be home with your family.”

“I’m an orphan,” she says honestly, dropping her cover for the moment yet keeping enough of it to be plausible. “At the Red Room. The ballet studio?”

“Oh, yeah, seen that place. It nice?”

“Yeah. They’re just not big on holidays. Or birthdays,” she explains.

“Ah, bummer. Well, at least the cake is good.”

“Thanks. It’s Walmart.”

Tom huffs a laugh. “Hey, if I had known, I woulda got you something,” he offers.

“I don’t need anything, but thank you,” she replied then considers. “But I wouldn’t mind if you showed me how to do a front flip on a ramp.”

Tom grins brightly.

* * *

Every December, the Red Room puts on a real ballet performance to convince people on the outside that it was actually a ballet facility. They always performed the Nutcracker. Though interested in weaponry and murder more, the girls enjoyed the art of performance as much as they were able to. They didn’t have any boys, of course, so only the best two girls played the Nutcracker and Clara.

Natasha never wanted to be Clara, so she’d been playing the Nutcracker since she was twelve. It had been a hard spot to earn, but she had done it with blood and sweat. No tears, of course.

She was familiar with the movements and practice was easy. Clara in this particular showing was Zoya, who was two years younger than her and nearly as good. She was a proficient combatant, an excellent ballet dancer, and a rival, through and through. Despite this, their dance ebbed and flowed, perfect dancing and strong muscles working as they practiced. Strength training, choreography, costume design.

They actually commissioned the costumes from outside sources, real people, because they certainly weren’t trained in needlework other than doing stitches, so the girls had to act like they knew how people worked and it was chicken-shit funny. They didn’t know slang, they didn’t know pop culture, they didn’t know anything besides blood, guns, and assassination, so, basically, Natasha talked for them and they got their costumes.

When the week of the showing came around, they were prepped and ready. The seats were packed with parents, children, and elderly folk looking for a familiar Christmas show. Natasha can’t get over the fact that these innocent people are watching assassins dance the Nutcracker for them. Their smiling innocent faces, the families in the crowd, people who had normal lives who had no idea that each of the girls that they watched dance and prance and perform killed people. That they could be told to kill anybody in the crowd and do it without question.

Natasha flows through the movements, dances with Zoya, performs and loves the feeling, the music, but hates the false reality. For a week this happens, the performance, three a day, for seven days, ending on Christmas day. Their feet are aching and muscles strained, but they were perfect and poised as always.

Natasha misses it almost as soon as it’s over. She wasn’t attacked, she danced to her feets content, she vaguely enjoys the company of the people around her, and she lies to the people in the crowd when they ask about it.

“I’m one of 28 young ballerinas with the Red Room,” she says. There are 28 of them in this facility, but more in Russia, in other sleeper cells. The lie isn’t bitter on her tongue, it’s sweet and feels almost real. “The training is hard, but the victory of performance and the happiness of my parents more than makes up for it.”

* * *

After questioning some of Tom’s helmet stickers, Natasha starts watching DC movies. Batman, Superman, that one weird Green Lantern one.  She watches the cartoons too after she finds that she enjoys it.

Her favorite character was probably Batman, the dark brooding man who adopted children and totally denied it. Wonder Woman was her second favorite, a warrior demi-god who was as kind as she was strong. She finds herself fascinated by their characterization and history, not knowing quite why that was. She bought a poster of Batman and Superman, putting them on her wall near the door, and soon after discovered fanfiction. She read, as she put it, gay ass fanfiction. She really liked Superbat. She just thought they’d be a cute couple, the dark and brooding with the cheery and hopeful, it was just a nice contrast. She read AU’s, some canon divergent stuff, a bunch of get-togethers and, generally, found something she enjoyed to do in spare time when she didn’t want to rock out to music or go skating.

She started skateboarding more often in general, however, using it to get places faster in general as she listened to music. Only one earbud, of course, she didn’t like getting snuck up on.

Natasha pops her gum. “My guardians hate that I go here,” she tells Tom next time she visits.

They had discovered her exploits, of course, because there was no hiding from the instructions. The same rules applied. As long as it doesn’t affect her work or training, it was permitted. They threatened the lives of the people in this place instead of her own, however, which marked the first time she felt… protective, and worried about others. They knew she was an excellent Widow, and to keep her in line, they would kill people to prove that they had the power over her. It made her feel awful, and she proved herself, again and again, to be here now.

He gives her a look and then grinds a rail. “Uh, why?” He asks as he drifts away on his board, eventually turning and wheeling her way.

“They think it distracts me,” she informs him.

“Well, I mean, I guess it is, but still. You like doing this right?”

“Yes.”

“Then there's really no problem. Oh, wait, how are your grades?”

“My classes are pass or fail and I’m passing,” she replies simply.  If she was failing, she’d be dead, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Then yeah, no problem,” he agrees with a grin. “Hey, you wanna learn how to do a double front flip on the halfpipe?”

“Hell yeah.”

Tom pats her helmet. “That on tight? You might need it.”

Natasha swats his hands away. “It’s _fine.”_

As a ballerina, Natasha tended to add balance maneuvers and complex turns to her tricks. She had this one move where she’d put in some power to a turn, kick up the back, and spin while she balances on only one set of wheels, one foot up on the air and arms out for stability, then in for speed.

Another she used to change directions on a shallow slope.  She kicked up the back so it was vertical to the floor, stood on the truck of the board, her other foot shifting her center of gravity back, and then hopped back on as it slid the other way.

Occasionally, if boys were staring, she’d pass by them on pointe doing the second arabesque. Then she’d do a sweet boardslide, not doing the second arabesque, but still on pointe. Then she’d stop because these really aren’t the shoes to be doing that in for long.

* * *

As a fourteen year old, she starts her freshman year at a public high school.

It was a standard thing for Widows training to be sleeper agents, to enter and complete public high school. It gave them the opportunity to observe real people and mimic them. It helped them transfer from blood and metal to something a little more human.

For Natasha it was an opportunity to meet people, real people, and experience what they did. It was the chance to make friends, real people friends, not hollowed versions of people who could have been, filled with bullets and guns and blood that wasn’t their own. She was excited, but of course she didn’t let that show, not even a little bit.

Her first class, English, has tables set up for two people each and the teacher had already made a seating chart. Natasha sat next to a boy named Sam Wilson, who had a water bottle with bird stickers and an old black backpack with colorful patches. He has a green wristband on and she knows exactly what that means- he’s a pre-mute. They’ve done lessons on mutants and pre-mutes. Pre-mutes and mutants were to be eliminated instantly during missions. Torture was not permitted, because it could trigger the mutation, even in adults, and ruin the assassination or attempt to retrieve information. It was hard to keep a man handcuffed when he could teleport and so on.

Sam smiled at her. “Hey.”

He has a nice smile, she thinks, and a cute gap between his teeth.

“Hey yourself,” Natasha said, suddenly very excited to be talking to her first teen outside of the Red Room. Sure, there was that circus boy, but they wouldn’t become friends. This had a very real potential to become whatever a friendship is, so Natasha was mentally scrambling for what to do. She goes over her training and falters as she realizes that all she knows how to do is manipulate people into trusting her. That wasn’t the same thing so what she said in the end was-

“Nice water bottle,” she blurted on impulse.

“Hey, thanks,” Sam said. “It’s my favorite.”

“Big bird fan?”

“I dabble,” he replies with a little shrug.

“You dabble in birds?” she questioned.

“Well,” Sam flushed, smiling yet embarrassed. “That’s not- I like birds. I’m a bird fan.”

“You dabble in birds,” Natasha concluded.

Sam grinned, ducking a bit and looked at the whiteboard. “Natasha, is it?”

“Yes. Sam’s a nice name,” she offers.

“Thanks.”

“We’re friends now,” she concluded.

“Forceful personality?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

Uh oh. Not what she wanted. She recalculates her approach and figures it’s best to roll with it. She needs to be truthful. She wants a real friend and according to media, a real friend likes you despite any oddities. “It’s been said.”

“Then sure,” Sam holds out his fist and Natasha bumps it.

Class itself is boring, but the people are fun to watch and analyze and she finally gets the chance to slouch, after a moment of having a straight back and noticing that literally nobody else was doing it. In fact, they were slouched, leaning, whispering, speaking, bickering, laughing, and a few were laying on their desk spaces, some ignoring the lesson or teacher. It was remarkable to see a teacher do absolutely nothing to punish the students for the disrespect.

In the Red Room, if they did any of that, they would receive a punishment. Something with electricity, or maybe hard metal and fists. But there was no blood here. No cold metal or electricity.

She spots the older Black Widows at lunch.

Sam is with her because they miraculously have the same lunch and is currently watching her curiously. He also had an expressive face, much like Clint did. Natasha peers at the group of Widows. They’ve commandeered a table only to themselves, glaring at anyone who even walking in their direction. They kind of look like gods among mortals, but in a lunchroom that has a few cockroaches spread about. There was one on the wall to Natasha’s left and she’s been staring at it for five minutes. Bugs don’t scare her. Nothing does, but it’s nice to keep an eye on things that can fly at you in a moments notice.

“I’ve seen bigger,” Sam says.

“Really,” Natasha replies.

Sam shrugs. “Not much bigger, but still bigger.”

Natasha only has one other class with Sam, math, so she sits close to him and, when the teacher tries to get her to move to continue the gendered seating chart she has, Natasha looks at her coldly and says. “I _will_ be sitting here,” in a vaguely intimidating manner.

Mrs. Henderson looks like she wants to protest, but is too scared to and isn’t sure why. She lets sleeping dogs lie and lets Natasha stay on that side of the room. She is the only girl on the boys' side.

In terms of curriculum, Natasha is ahead. Constant instruction and a lack of any form of vacation of break mean more time to get more information, but she still tries to pay attention. She’s often distracted by Sam, however, even when they aren’t in the same class. He’s expressive and opinionated, everything Natasha is never allowed to be. She likes watching and listening to him discuss serious issues or laugh at a dumb meme, or focus on school work.

Occasionally there are bullies. Natasha is never bullied, she has too much confidence and not enough flaws. There is nothing to bully her with, but Sam does have something they like to target; Sam has his race and his genetics.

When Natasha sees Sam in the hall and moves to walk beside him to her next class, she spots someone with big meaty fingers snag the wristband and yank so hard that Sam goes stumbling and crashes to the floor, dropping a few notebooks with it. As the boys laugh at him and pat each other on the back, Natasha darts through the crowd. She moves like a viper, weaving into the group of bullies and grabbing the offenders shirt in one hand, using her momentum and strength to slam the boy into the lockers, startling him and his friends.

“If you ever,” she starts. “Do anything to my friend ever again, I will find where you live and slit your throat. It won’t be while you’re asleep, and it will not be painless. I will wake you up so you can watch me do it, so you know that you were dying because you decided it was funny to be an asshole, and while I watch you bleed out, your own switchblade in your neck-” Natasha pulled the blade from his pocket before he even realized she was doing it and brought it up for him to see as she flicked it open. “-you’ll be thinking of all your little mistakes and how you could have avoided it if you just listened to me. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded, pale and frightened.

“I’m glad.”

She lets him go, taking the knife, it was hers now, and grabs Sam, pulling him up and away from the area.

“Yo, what the fuck was that Nat?” Sam asks when they're a distance away, and Natasha looks at him.

“I’m protecting you,” she says simply, cocking her head. “I didn’t like what he did, and I don’t want it to happen again.”

Sam watches her, and then he really looks into her, with those piercing understanding eyes that she admires so much. He has a gift for reading people, and she hopes he can’t see what she really is.

“Nat, are- here, come off to the side, I wanna talk.” Sam pulls her into a secluded area, the entryway into the faculty bathroom, which creates a sort of empty cubby away from prying eyes. “Nat, that was intense as all hell. I’m a little worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be,” she informs him. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean, dude,” Sam clarified. “You definitely can, and I’m glad you told that asshole off, but I’m not an idiot, I know something's off with you. You know I want to be a therapist, I’m good at reading people because I know what to look for.”

“Yes. And?”

“And I know you have trouble emoting, I know you keep a strict schedule, I know you can fight like a crazy mother fucker, like you were made to fight like it, and I know that you and the other girls from the Red Room have some serious beef. Something is up. And you don’t have to tell me what it is, that’s not a deal breaker in our friendship, I can see you closing off and getting tense from here, don’t do that shit, I’m still your buddy, but I want you to know that I’m not an idiot and I know something is up, even if I don't know what it is.”

Natasha had no idea how to respond so she blinked slowly.

“Like-” Sam paused as the late bell rang and then shook his head. “I just called you out on having something wrong in your life, and you just look as neutral as ever and blink at me. Which is fine, but people who- who have normal lives have an easier time reacting to things like this. I just need to know if you need help.”

“I-” Natasha was about to say ‘don’t’ but she reconsidered. “You are my friend. And you mean a lot more to me than you think you do. And I intend to keep you safe. Because I like you. So I can handle my things. And I can be your friend. But since I like you, it makes some things harder for me. Like the other girls. So I need to be cautious. I need you to never talk to the other girls because they are dangerous to me and you. Okay?”

“Sure. Can I ask why?”

“No. The less you know, for now, the better. Until I can tell what they think of you. You need to never discuss me, never call me your friend, and never ever tell them about anything.”

“Nat,” Sam starts and Natasha steps closer to look around the barren hallway before looking back at his face. “How serious is this?”

Natasha considers the question. “At the moment, on a scale of ten, it is a three. If the others gain interest, an eleven. I will do everything I can to protect you, but by following my instruction, you can keep this situation at a six, max.”

Sam bits his lip and looks away as he considers. “Just why do you care so much?”

“Because you,” Natasha says quietly, her face still blank, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Are the first thing in my life I have _ever_ cared about. You make me feel like I’m a real person and I am not about to give that up just because it puts me at risk.”

Sam blinks at her.

“I care about you, and it makes me angry to see people be mean to... my _zolotse._ ” She says the word and it feels right, and embarrassing, but those are emotions and it’s been so long since she felt anything like embarrassment.

Sam blinked again, this time a little more surprised. “Was that Russian?”

“Yes. My name is Natasha Alianovna Romanova,” Natasha tells him.  “It’s very Russian. I am from Russia.”

“What does that- what did that mean?”

“It is like- it means ‘my gold.’ You are precious. To be cared for and protected from people who intend to take or use you.”

“I- okay. I’ll stay away from those girls and keep quiet. Alright? You’re my friend too. You’re my first real friend, and I’m not gonna let you down. Okay?”

“Okay,” Natasha agreed. “Now, let’s get to class.”

“We’re gonna be tardy, shit,” Sam mumbled as they started toward their classrooms, and Natasha pulled a few papers from her pocket, showing him the tardy slips. She pulls a pen from his backpack. “Who was your last teacher?”

“Uh, Zamboni.”

She nods and copies his signature on the pass, she had memorized Sam’s schedule and found the teacher signatures in an old yearbook in the library, so she was familiar with his handwriting, then handing him it to fill out. “Say you were held to finish up some work.”

“Um. Thanks.” Sam took it and squinted at the signature.

Natasha filled hers out and they went separate ways.

“Does this mean I can call you my dragon?” Sam asks when she’s about to turn a corner. She looks back and peers at him through narrowed eyes. “I wanna take that as a yes!”

* * *

The weekends were exactly the same when she started school. She still had to sit with a straight back in a chair and started motionlessly at the board, which makes her itch after weeks of slouching and chatting and not quite listening to teachers, but now she had additional homework after training and instruction, so it makes it a little difficult to enjoy herself. Luckily, she managed to complete it all swiftly, but it definitely was an unliked part of going to school.

At lunch on Saturday, she was approached by two Widows, two years her senior. Natasha returned their passive stare as they sat.

[The boy is a liability,] Inna said.

[He is not,] Natasha replied. [He is my cover. You chose to associate only with other Widows, I simply took a more direct approach into my studies on the interactions of Americans.]

[So you are not fond of him? You have decided to manipulate the boy into thinking you are his friend?]

[Of course. Widows do not have weaknesses and I would never let an American boy be one of mine. It’s beneath me.]

They regarded her with approval, though it never showed. [An interesting method, little Widow. Take care not to get attached. People can be so… fragile, and weak,] Yana said.

Natasha heard the threat clearly. Widows were methodical, and her words were a test. If she passed, Sam would encounter minimal problems. She tilted her head and chose her words carefully. [I’ve noticed. I intend to see just how much so.]

The bell rang, they moved on.

Natasha hopes she passed the test.

* * *

She turns fifteen and shares this information with Sam on November 22nd.

Sam stares at her and by now they are very good friends. Natasha knows that he is an orphan and has been in the foster system since he was six. Before that, he was in an orphanage. She knows his favorite bird is a falcon, his birthday is September 23rd, he has a sweet tooth, and when he was five he had a pet hummingbird for a week before a cat got it. She knows a lot about him. It’s nice. She likes knowing about Sam, and sometimes she’s a little sad she can’t tell him much about her. But she did tell him about her birthday, which is an event in and of itself.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would've gotten you a gift!”  Sam exclaims.

“You would have?” Natasha asks.

“Yeah. I woulda made something, at least,” he insists. He scowls at the table. “Shit.”

Natasha flounders. “Do you skateboard?”

“No, but I have a scooter, one of the trick ones,” Sam offers.

“Come with me after school,” she requests.

“Okay.”

After school is over, Natasha locates Sam, with her equipment in hand, and walks with him to his foster home. After retrieving his stuff (and Natasha memorizing his address, all possible escape routes from the house, the faces and names of his foster parents and so on) they head to the skate park.

Playing with Sam is much different than just talking with Sam. It feels more like she’s alive and part of something. She sees him smile and whoop as he pulls off a risky trick, flying through the air on his red and silver scooter with scuffed sides and wheels, and she enjoys it. He has such a happy grin, such an expressive face, that Natasha feels that feeling inside her too. When Sam skids to a stop beside her he looks surprised.

“You’re smiling,” he says and even though his face looks proud, happy, a little relieved, the words are like ice to Natasha.

She starts and her blood goes cold. “I- I’m- I-”

“Yo, Nat,” Sam says, and he drops his scooter entirely to rest his hands on her shoulders, concern filling his features. “It’s okay, it’s- it’s fine. I like your smile.”

“It’s not- not- I can’t-” Natasha feels like she’s breaking, scrambling for any purchase of composure, but her chest is starting to feel like glass and the fear is hot on her back, like the brand between her shoulder blades. Oh, no. This is bad, this isn’t good, it’s too much all at once and-

Sam is leading her down under the darkness of the tall ramps, where only candy wrappers and dust bunnies settle on the floor. People aren’t supposed to go there, mostly because it’s all metal supports and it’s exactly spacious enough for people. The floor isn’t even flat because of the supports, so walking is difficult and rolling is impossible. Far against the back wall, in the cover of shadows, Sam sits Natasha down and plants himself next to her.

Natasha falls to pieces, and it’s not pretty, despite all she tries to manage herself. The explosion of emotions that come out as tears and gasps as she covers her face with her hands is too much to keep herself together and push it all back. There’s happiness, and guilt, and sadness, and exhaustion, and longing, and grief, and fear, all twisted in her stomach and chest. Her face feels hot and sticky, and she feels horrible, like she’s ill and hurt all over. Her body and bones ache, and her scars feel like cold metal on her skin. She’s so afraid of dying because she’s hardly lived at all, but a show of emotion like that would have her throat slit if she was at the Red Room. Sam waits calmly, pressed into her side.

He’s warmth, and safety, and his emotions are steady and reassuring, and that only makes Natasha feel worse, that he’s composed as she loses control like this. But, in a way, it also helps her settle, helps her focus on one emotion.

When her mess dies down to tacky wet cheeks and burning eyes, she wipes her face off with her hands.

“Better?”

“No,” Natasha says with a raspy voice, because her throat and face hurts, and she feels weak and cold. Her hands don’t feel right and her eyes are sore.

“Okay. Can you tell me why you aren’t feeling better?”

“There- the emotions are- it- I’m still- still scared. And I feel bad. My head hurts.”

“That’s okay. That looked really rough. I’m not surprised. Do you know what triggered it?”

Natasha doesn’t want to tell him. She feels it all locking up in her throat, and she can tell that she’s losing time. She wants to tell him. But what will he think? What will the truth sound like coming from her? What will he think of the truth? Will he leave? Will he decide that she’s dangerous, that she’s a murderer and nothing more?

“I- I can’t let my walls down. That was weak, I shouldn’t have let emotions have an effect on me, I should have-”

Sam grabs her hands and kept them between them. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Just focus on my hands, okay? You’re going to work yourself up again and bury yourself in guilt and ‘should haves’. Okay? So, this seems to be about you smiling at me. Right?”

Natasha nods and focuses on his hands. They’re warm and they contrast so much from her own. Her hands are worn with calluses, they’re cold, they’ve been covered in blood, both her own and the blood of others, they’re boney and her nails are poorly cared for. His hands are soft and warm, they’re clean of blood, they’re comfortable and soothing, not boney at all. His nails are short, bitten down. She studies that, his lightly jagged nails, the one flaw.

“Okay. So. You seemed surprised that you showed emotion, and then you panicked. That tells me that you’re afraid of showing emotion. That means something happened, or happens, when you show emotion. Right?”

Natasha nods, and studies his nails, thinking of when he had done that. He bites his nails when he’s nervous. Sam bites his nails a lot. She’s seen it in class. What is Sam nervous about?

“Having it pointed out made you panic more, because someone noticed. Natasha, are you hurt when you show emotion at the Red Room?”

Natasha keeps stock still for a moment, feeling the tension between them, and she looks up at Sam. Sam looks at her, looks into her, and she can see the moment when his heart breaks- his heart breaks for her-

He cared. He really cared about her. He didn’t think less of her. He cared that she was hurt and it broke his heart. Tears started building up in her eyes again and Sam pulled her into a tight hug. Natasha’s face was pressed into his shoulder, and the fabric of his shirt soaked up the tears left on her face.

She clutched him back, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position.

She feels hot drips fall onto her arm, and the realization that he was crying for her was something else entirely.

 _“There is a place where the sidewalk ends,”_ Sam says quietly, his voice raspy and low. _“And before the street begins, and there the grass grows soft and white, and there the sun burns crimson bright, and there the moon-bird rests from his flight to cool in the peppermint wind.”_

It’s a poem. He’s reciting a poem to her. Natasha closes her eyes and remembers Russian lullabies at bedtime, either her father or mother singing to her, the voices are so muffled in her memory.

She… she misses them. It’s taken her ten years to remember that. That she misses them. Tears start welling up again and she grabs the back of his shirt tightly.

_“Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black, and the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow, we shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, and watch where the chalk-white arrows go to the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, and we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, for the children, they mark, and the children, they know, the place where the sidewalk ends.”_

* * *

Sam knowing one thing about the Red Room means more than he knows. It’s one red flag on the mess of blood and metal the Red Room is built on, and since he seems intent on continuing to be Natasha’s friend, intent on protecting her emotionally, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to keep the rest of it secret for long.

It’s a calculated decision, to let him come over to work on a class project for English, even he knows this.

“Shit, like, are you sure?” he asks, looking worried. “Is- is it going to be okay for you?”

“You’re not worried about yourself?” She cocks her head.

“I mean, well, yeah, now I am. But I trust you, and your skills. But I’m worried that even when I leave, this will be bad news for you.”

Natasha blinks at him.

“Yeah, so?” he goes on, replying to her motion.

“You know one thing, so there’s no stopping you from learning more,” she explains after a moment. “I think, if you get to see, you’ll understand.”

“It’s too hard for you to tell me about,” Sam concludes.

“Yes. In a way.”

Sam sighs and puts his hands into his hoodie pocket, leaning back on the library chair. “This shit’s gonna get fuckin’ crazy, ain’t it?”

“Maybe. I’ll do what I can to make sure it doesn’t.”

“Well, we gotta work on this god damn project, so fuck it, I guess.”

“Then meet me after school today. I’ll take you there and make sure nobody sees you,” Natasha replies, and the situation is settled. That doesn’t stop dread and tension from building in her stomach.  

Meeting Sam after school, as he wears a face like he’s marching into war, does not elevate the emotion, but when he quickly reaches out and squeeze her hand, and she can feel his bitten fingernails against her palm, it settles some. Getting him in is easy enough. She always uses her window entrance anyway. She locks it behind them, checks her security system as Sam waits by the window, peering around, and when everything is untampered with, she lets him set his backpack down and explore a bit, poking along her things and frowning at the dummy in her bed.

He points at it and looks at it in questioning. He has not noticed the hidden weapons.

“In case anyone tries to attack me in my sleep, I always have a false body prepared,” she explains, and he looks concerned as he grimaces.

Natasha rummages around in her things and then pulls a bulletproof vest from her couch drawers, handing it to Sam. “Just in case,” she explains.

“Yeah, Nat, what the fuck?”

She blinks at him slowly.

“You’re serious?”

She nods. Sam blows out some air and pulls it on, adjusting it to his size.

“I’m going to get into my uniform,” she explains. “You just pull up the project, I’ll just be a moment.”

‘Uniform?’ she hears him mumble, but she ignores it to strip to her undergarments and grab the folded clothing from her cabinet, pulling on the dusty grey outfit and tying back her hair into a ponytail. Not the most efficient, but she could fix it later. Once she double checked the hall, and set up the workspace for them so that Sam was protected by a bulletproof piece of furniture (the table, it was reinforced on the bottom with a plate of bulletproof glass) she brought out one Glock and one shotgun to reside next to her, in case of an attack.

“Nat,” Sam said quietly, staring at the weapons.

“These are very necessary,” she tells him. “I said I would do anything to protect you, so if it comes to it, I have to be prepared. You’re hidden by the table, but they are very observant and may notice you anyway. If anyone comes, you stay quiet, you do not speak. For now, you speak quietly and keep the wall behind you in mind. See that panel? The one with the scuffs on the side? That opens inward. You go into the wall, climb the ladder up, and stay in the loft. There are cameras and sensors all around the room, so you’ll know what’s going on. But it is important that nobody knows you are here or were here.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

“If I have to leave, you stay there until I come and get you. I’ll try to communicate what’s happening with you until then. If I have to go, I’ll put a security lens in so you can watch through my eyes on my computer. The password is blueberries.”

“Nat, this is some serious shit.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. Now, the chapter.”

“Uh, yeah, so. Um. I think it’s leaning pretty heavily toward the theme of ‘Otherness’, like how society rejects it or reacts to it, right? So, we can focus on that for this presentation too-”

They get forty-five minutes of work time before they are interrupted. Natasha shoves the computers toward Sam, grabs the shotgun, and it up and prepared by the time the door is fully opened. The Instructor observes her and her eyes vaguely sweep around the area before settling back on Natasha.

[Has someone else been here?]

[No. I would not compromise the Red Room by inviting intruders.] Natasha lowers the gun slightly and in her peripheral vision sees Sam quietly make his way inside the wall.

[You’ve rearranged.]

[It’s my room.]

There’s a silence. [Come. There’s a demonstration.]

[Yes, Instructor.]

She turns and leaves and when Sam peeks out from the wall, Natasha waves him back inside and moves. She grabs the contact lens off the cabinet and leaves the gun in its place, quickly sticking it in as she leaves the room and shuts the door behind her.

Everyone makes their way to the demonstration room and lines up, hands behind their back, in perfect position. Natasha can’t help but think of what Sam is seeing, but she keeps calm and focuses on the moment, on the instructors and the number of people watching from behind the glass in the observation room. There are three men and two women. A larger crowd than normal.

[Natasha, Inna, forward.]

They’re putting her against someone two years her senior, Natasha thinks as they step forward and stand beside each other on the training floor. If she loses, she’ll be humiliated in combat, but it will be expected. If she wins, Inna will be humiliated and will be resentful of her. It isn’t a good situation.

The Instructor nods one and they turn to face each other, hands up, getting into their stances.

[Go.]

Inna moves first, and Natasha dodges the fast fist, grabbing and twisting. Inna flips with it and her leg swipes through the air. Natasha let’s go to duck down and ball her fist up, slamming it into Inna’s chin as she settles again. She stumbles, but Natasha isn’t able to tackle her before she gets into a steady position and catches Natasha's fist. He other hand hits her right in the sternum, hard enough to knock her down, and Natasha rocks back as she hits the floor, using her new momentum to spring up and back to her feet.

She rushes Inna and jumps up, catching her around the head with her knees, and leaning back to flip Inna forward. Natasha flows with the motion and lets go as Inna tilts, dropping to her knees beside Inna and then swinging her leg around Inna to straddle her back, putting one hand on the back of Inna’s neck and bringing the other up, prepared to strike.

She did it. She looks to the Instructor, who nods.

Natasha punches Inna in the back of the skull, knocking her head into the mat, and Inna goes limp. Unconscious. Natasha stands and when she looks to the instructor again, she is dismissed to rejoin the ranks. Inna is carried off the floor by the youngest Widows and taken to the infirmary.

She stands in her position and watches the next several groups going. Zoya is out, as is Alena and Toma. They next go on to present their weapons skills. Natasha proves her worth with top marks with the sniper rifle, Glock, and revolver. She doesn’t miss once. Anya misses once, and she is backhanded harshly and dismissed to be disciplined.

They line up again, and this time a table with knives is delivered.

[Natasha, Katya, forward.]

Natasha steps forward and they each pick one knife off of the table. They get into position. And when the Instructor gave the word, they attacked. This was different than a fist fight.  Then you could take a hit and roll with it, you could use it, you could push through the pain. A knife was more dangerous, it cut and bit and stabbed when it touched, and Natasha was familiar with the feel of a knife pushed into her body. She did not want to feel it again. So she fought and fought until her arms were glistening with blood and she was wrapped around Katya, the knife against her throat, arms pinned to her side, a hand over her eyes.

Natasha looked to the instructor and she shook her head. Natasha let Katya go and stood. Katya stood as well and faced Natasha, her face blank as usual.

[Dismissed. Hold position.]

They took position in the line and waited, watching the instructors speak with the observers before coming back into the room.

“Tatiana, you have a hit on a man this Sunday, receive your debriefing packet at the door. Valentina, you have a package to deliver in two weeks, receive your debriefing packet from your employer. Gala, you have a package to retrieve and deliver, receive your debriefing packet from your employer. Misha, you have an assassination in two days, receive your debriefing packet at the door. Natasha, you have an infiltration and assassination on Friday, speak to me when everyone leaves, remain in position. Everyone else, dismissed.”

Natasha stays in position until everyone leaves and waits patiently as the Instructor plants herself in front of her. “You lied to me, Natasha.”

“I have not, Instructor.”

“You invited someone over.”

“I did not, Instructor.”

The Instructor peers at her. “Is this going to be another situation where you argue that your… interests have no impact on your performance?”

Natasha watches her impassively.

The Instructor sighs. “I see. Well. You performed adequately during the demonstration. I am prepared to overlook it for now, but don’t let it affect you or you will be replaced, Natasha. You are good, but the Red Room does not breed weakness.”

“Yes, Instructor.”

“You will be dismissed after your punishment. You can receive your debriefing packet at the door.”

She expects a punch to the stomach, or blow to the face, but instead electricity races through her stomach and explodes behind her eyes as the cattle prod is jammed into her torso. She drops as fire burns in her abdomen and she coughs out blood from where she bit her tongue. On her hands and knees, and blinks past the fresh burst of pain that washes over her when her hair is grabbed and her head pulled up.

“You’re a clever one, Natasha, and you have the makings of a great Widow, but you get distracted by these meaningless things. Your toys, your habits, your _boy._ ”

Natasha looks back into her face.

“I simply hope you overcome this or learn better soon. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, Instructor,” Natasha says evenly and stands when her hair is released.

She takes the packet from the younger Widow at the door and goes back to her room. She enters and closes the door behind her before leaning against it and letting the remnants of pain wash through her before pressing it all down. Sam opens the panel up in the corner and he looks upset.

“Nat,” he says quietly.

“Now you know. Come down. You should go home.”

He closes the hatch and a moment later he’s crawling out of the section of wall, grabbing his things and packing up as she goes to sit by him.

“So,” Sam says, not looking at her. “The Red Room is some sort of Russian spy/assassin operation. You’re all child soldiers. You were just bought by one of those people to kill someone, and you were tased for lying to your- your instructor.”

“Yes.”

Sam stops packing up and just rests his hands on his knees. After a moment he looks up and shifts closer, abandoning his things. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’ll stop. It has stopped.”

“You got hurt. That matters to me. _You_ matter to me. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yes.” After she points it out to him, he takes the bandages and disinfectant and cleans all of her cuts before wrapping them up. She watches his hands work, soft and steady and kind.

“Do you hate me?” Natasha asks before he finishes.

“No, of course not, how could I ever hate you?”

“I’m a killer. I’m an assassin. I have a lot of blood on my hands. I’m dangerous, and by being friends with me, you are in danger. And you- you’re… you’re good. You do good, and you’re kind, and thoughtful, and considerate, and observant, and you help people. I am nothing like you. And you know what I am.”

“I know _who_ you are,” Sam corrects, and suddenly he seems furious. “You’re a fucking person, Natasha. You’re not a goddamn object, you’re a who, not a what. You live and breathe, and you like things, and you have emotions even if you hide them under hundreds of layers, and you’re worth it to me, okay? I don’t hate you because I like you, okay? It’s simple as that. You’re not a bad person. You’re a good person put into a shitty position where you have to do bad things, and that sucks, but I would never blame you for that! You’re my best friend, and you don’t seem to understand just how much it means to me that you like me for who I am, and that you’re there for me, and that you don’t mind that I- that you have to pick me up and drop me off places because of my stupid anxiety.”

Natasha blinks. She didn’t know that was unusual. That was just Sam, and she didn’t mind traveling to find Sam and go places with Sam because he was _Sam._

“You matter to me, you asshole,” Sam says as tears start falling down his face and Natasha grabs him and pulls him into her arms because she just wants to feel him against her and she can’t stand to see him crying like that, she can already feel emotions tugging at her chest and her eyes.

They stay like that for a while.

And after they settle, Natasha takes Sam home.

* * *

Midterms are a breeze and Natasha realizes that she has only one friend.

To be honest, none of the other teens have been of interest in that regard. She can’t help but think she doesn’t have the right connection to make real friend with anyone else. She’s got too many things she’s got to keep secret. Sam wasn’t supposed to know, but now that he does, he’s basically Natasha’s person. Like, beyond a friend, in a way.

Besides that… everyone is kind of boring.  

Natasha sighs and eats her mac and cheese that tastes a bit like cardboard. She loved it. It tasted bad, but it’s good. She can’t explain why. She turns to Sam. “Are you going to eat that?”

He blinks, looks at her clean plate, at his own, and says “No, here.”

Natasha cleaned the plate efficiently and wiped up cheese goo with the piece of bread they got with the tray.

The rest of her classmates were so… trivial. Maybe that was the problem. The issues they had were easily resolved and boring. _He doesn’t like me, my mom’s being such a drag, my dad took away my computer…_

Well, Natasha had to kill people on command or they’d eliminate her and replace her. Sam was really level headed, he saw the absurdity just like she did, and he fit with Natasha. He was abandoned by his mother, he was an orphan with real problems, he was a pre-mute, and, well, crushes didn’t seem like an issue to him, they were all underwhelming. Neither she nor Sam could quite react in the same way or understand in the same way a lot of the issues and subjects the other teenagers brought up.

So, after admitting defeat, she changes tactics. Instead of making friends, she’ll avoid making them.

In gym, she starts ignoring the quiet insistence that she pretend to be average at the exercises. It gives her a good workout and intimidates the boys. She beat every record set by anyone who ever even participated in gym, including the athletes. In class, she sometimes walked on pointe. Usually to reach something because she didn’t want to be weird about it.

She showed off, just a little bit, and she observed the people around her, and she spoke to other people to analyze them, to practice her skills. After speaking with several different boys, she discovered that many asked for her number because she was attractive.

“So, what’s your plan with that,” Sam asked at lunch when she told him about her discoveries.

“They find me attractive, so they will attempt to court me. This, of course, based on the reputation they have, will lead to stalkers or dick pictures. I am going to buy a phone to use to use said pictures as blackmail.”

Sam put his plastic utensils down on his styrofoam plate and laced his fingers together.

“Are you fucking for real?”

“Yes. It will be fun.”

Sam blew out a breath and then cocked his head. “Could be funny though, just don’t be too hard on them. They’re children with cocks, they don’t know what they’re doing. They think with their groin and rarely look back.”

“Alright.”

“What do you intend to get out of them?”

“Not sure. Not money, or grades. Perhaps material items. New collections. Information.”

Sam looked up at the ceiling and then at Natasha. “Cool,” he said reluctantly. “But be careful anyway.”

Natasha looked at him and, cautiously, smiled. When Sam looked up at her, he grinned back and slung one arm around her to give her a brief squeeze before letting go and returning to his meal.

* * *

 _"I don’t give a damn ‘bout my reputation!”_ Natasha shouts into her hairbrush. _“Livin’ in the past, it’s a new generation! A girl can do what she wants to do and that's what I'm gonna do! An' I don't give a damn ' bout my bad reputation!”_

She dances like she doesn’t have a care in the world, hands up and jumping to the rock music on her bed. She’s got a gun strapped to her thigh, the bulletproof vest on her chest, a baseball hat on backward, and aviators on her nose.

_“Oh no! Not me! An' I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation! Never said I wanted to improve my station! An' I'm only doin' good when I'm havin' fun an' I don't have to please no one! An' I don't give a damn 'bout my bad reputation!”_

She jumps from the bed to the table to the couch, flipping off of it and shouting the lines.

The door opens and Natasha has a gun aimed and the safety off immediately.

The Instructor looks at her so tiredly. “Why can’t you be like the other Widows, Natasha? Your skills are extraordinary, but you waste your time doing all of- this!” she gestures to the room, Natasha, the walls, the media station, her skateboard.

Oh, perfect timing actually.

“Cuz- _I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation! I've never been afraid of any deviation! An' I don't really care if ya think I'm strange, I ain't gonna change! An' I'm never gonna care 'bout my bad reputation!”_

At the even more exhausted and frustrated look, Natasha turns down the music a bit. “I don’t want to be an emotionless drone with shitty interpersonal abilities. Consider this research.”

A girl looks over the Instructors shoulder and scowls at being called an emotionless drone with shitty interpersonal skills.

“Can you name this song?” Natasha asks.

The girl stares and then says “It’s not relevant to any mission I’ve been assigned or likely will take.”

Natasha blinks at her slowly. “Do you know how to talk about anything besides missions?”

The girl whips out a .45 Colt and takes a shot at Natasha. Natasha dodges and flips over her coffee table to hide behind (the same one reinforced with bulletproof glass). She fires a single shot and it rips through the girl's shoulder, blood splattering her uniform. The girl swears in Russian and is escorted away by the Instructor.

* * *

“I fed a man to a tiger once,” Natasha lies to her assigned group in history class and is pleased that they look uncertain of its falsity. Sam rubs his head. “Okay, I lied-” they look relieved. “I tried to get a tiger to eat him, but it ran off to eat cotton candy instead.”

Now they look confused.

“Cats can’t taste sugar,” Miranda points out.

Natasha shrugs.

“Ooo-kay,” Lauren says, eyeing her. “How about we finish this Powerpoint on Hamilton, yeah?”

Natasha took a sip of her water. The bottle was decorated with DC stickers, she liked matching with Sam. She opened her school issued laptop and joined the Google slide presentation, quickly finishing her assigned questions and topics relating to Hamilton. It was nothing she wasn’t familiar with. She both paid attention to the lessons and knew some things from her American History lessons at the Red Room.

She starts fiddling with her phone, out of sight of the teacher, and notices a new picture message.

“Oh, Sam, my project’s been going great,” Natasha mentions and then shows her new phone.

“Uh, which one?”

“The picture one,” she explains. “Boys?”

“Oh, god. Can… I see? Oh, I regret asking already,” he says as she unlocks the phone and shows him the five contacts. He grimaces and clicks on one and then snorts. “He sent that? Oh, buddy. That’s… not attractive. Not body shaming here, but that is just a terrible picture.”

“I know. The lighting is terrible and presentation juvenile,” Natasha said absently.

“Is that the boys' bathroom?”

“Is it?”

“I think it is,” he marveled. “Wow, that’s bold.”

Natasha hummed, a little amused, and put her phone away. She fiddled around on her computer, got bored, and started hacking past firewalls so she could watch youtube videos of bird fails. Sam looks over her shoulder and melts, putting his head on her shoulder. He hands back the phone, now invested in something else.

“Aw,” he coos.

Natasha puts her arm around his shoulders and pulls him in. He absently throws his arm around her back and they stay slightly tangled up until class ends.

Natasha likes it.

* * *

Sam, Natasha notes, is very invested in bettering the lives of others. Namely, targeting the lack of accessibility in the school. One day, after school, he had convinced Natasha to hang around and help him tape braille tags for every classroom with a special labeler he managed to buy, with the help of Natasha, who did go through with getting money from a few of the boys. It was pretty funny, seeing miserable boys fork over a few twenties and stare at the ground, humiliated.

Natasha gave them an icy smile. “Next time, you should think before handing such… sensitive information out electronically, especially something nobody wants, like pictures of your genitals.”

And right now, Sam has convinced her to come to school early to install and honest to god ramp for students in wheelchairs. He had done his research, gotten his supplies from stagecraft classes. The stage craft teacher, an old guy who insisted they call him Stan and not Mr. Lee, said they could have it for free. Not that... they were goign t pay for it, in the first place, but the encoragement is nice.

"Ramp will be easier on my knees, anyway," the man had said, and that was missing the point, just a tad, but in the end, that counted as a physical limitation too, so not really? Natasha wasn't sure where that ranked.

Anyway, they were currently bothering teachers throughout the hall with the screwdrivers whining. Natasha held things in place as Sam worked, mostly, but did do some of it herself. It was neat.

“It just ain’t fair,” he explains as he covers the length in strips of tape that create friction. “There are laws for this, but it’s not like people check or listen. And I see the kids in wheelchairs go outside to get to the end of the hall over grass and it just. Ain’t. Fair.”

Natasha cocks her head. “You have strong emotions about this.”

Sam sighs and rubs his face. “Yeah. I- yeah.”

“Explain it to me.”

“I- it’s difficult. To be excluded. To not have people help, or to make it worse. I’m a pre-mute. It’s not the same thing, I know it’s not, but I got kicked out of an elementary school for being a pre-mute. _And it wasn’t fair._ God, I’m still so _mad_ about it, but there are no laws protecting people like me. I want to help people, I wanna be a therapist, and all I see is privileged people makin’ it harder for those who need help or equality. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Natasha nods and finishes smoothing the tape over the transition portion of the ramp. “I do. You’re a nice person, Sam.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “Thanks, Nat.”

They finangle something for railings and get to class when the bell rings. The students in wheelchairs, Natasha is reliably informed, really appreciate their work and the new ramp.

* * *

“So, what's the tricks for today?” Sam asks as he joins her up on the skate ramp, looking down below at the other people doing their own thing.

Natasha considered and hesitantly said. “I want you to teach me how to laugh.”

It had taken a lot of thinking for her to bring this subject up. She still wasn’t sure about it, but she loved the way he sounded so much, the way his head went back and his eyes closed because he couldn’t handle whatever made him laugh, the sound if it, so happy and amused. He really was such a bright sunflower, a little sliver of gold.

Sam blinks, surprised. “What? You… I mean, I can try, but is that… safe? For you?”

“Probably not,” Natasha allowed, because he knew exactly what it all meant. “But. I like the way you sound when you laugh. And sometimes I want to be able to laugh. It’s just been trained out of me, so I reason that it can be trained back into me.”

“Huh,” Sam said softly. “Okay, give me a day or two to think on that.”

He’s quiet as he thinks on it, and Natasha stares at him, curious as to what he was thinking about, and she wonders what he has in store for her if he agrees.

“I said give me a day or two,” he says, aghast, and lightly taps her shoulder with the back of his hand. “Don’t stress yourself. I’d help immediately if I thought I could, but I wanna look into some things and try to figure out an approach before I get any of our hopes up.”

“Okay,” Natasha agrees. “Thank you.” She tilts her head and reaches out to trace a graze on his arm, outlining the scar. He lets her, staying still.

“You ever get shot before?”

“Yes,” Natasha said. “It is unpleasant, but mandatory as part of our conditioning. To be able to take the pain and keep going.”

Sam looks up at the ceiling like god will grant him strength and then pulls Natasha over by one of her belt loops. She scoots accordingly and he hugs her briefly. “You’re pretty fuckin’ badass.”

“Thank you,” she says, pleased.

* * *

“Okay, I think I have some sort of vague plan,” Sam announces the next day as she sits in his room on the bed, hands in her lap, watching him speak. His house is a little shabby, and his room just a bit messy. He lives with his foster parents and two older foster kids, both seventeen year old girls, who sleep in another room. “I don’t think ‘fake it till you make it’ is a good method to go about this, ‘cause I don’t want you to have fake laughs, so I’m gonna go for humor and-” he held up his hands. “Tickling. Are you ticklish?”

“I doubt it,” Natasha replies.

“No time like the present to find out,” Sam proclaimed and ducked down to run his fingers down her sides. “Rah!”

It’s sort of like a fake tackle, so Natasha lets them both fall into the blankets as he tries his best to tickle a laugh out of her. It was an odd sensation, that made her want to jerk away, like there was static all down her side, and she felt her face spasm, but no laughter, just a fast exhale through her nose.

Sam stopped and looked down at her in interest. “Well, that’s a start.”

“What was?”

“That breath, that’s a start. Some people sort of push out a laugh sort of like that.”

“Oh,” Natasha said and squeaked when Sam pushed his face against her neck and blew out, making a sort of farting noise. The vibration, the tickle on her skin, the surprise of it made her jerk again and she scrunched up her neck on instinct.

Sam laughed and pulled back. “Did you squeak?” he asked, delighted. “You squeaked! Squeak! Little miska!”

“It’s _myshka_ , and that means little mouse! You can’t say little little mouse, and I am not little. I am 5’ 6’’!”

“And I am 5’ 7’’,” Sam says, pleased, and buries his face in her neck again to blow air, and Natasha squeaks again and wiggles away as he laughs. “Little mouse, little mouse! _Myshka_ !” His hands run along her sides again, and it _tickles_ , and she’s already amused with his American pronunciation of the word ‘mouse’ and his laugh sounds so sunny and bright, and there’s something building in her chest and throat.

And when he makes another ‘rah!’ and blows a raspberry against her neck, chanting ‘mouse!’ as she can’t help those odd squeaks, she scrunches her neck up, twists her head away, grabs at his shoulders, opened her mouth to feign asking him to ‘go away,’ instead wanting him to keep it up, because his happiness is infections-

His hands move up, closer to her armpits-

And she laughs.

Sam freezes, pulling up as he grins. She covers her own mouth, surprised. She feels her face get hot and cold at the same time, and as panic starts to travel up her spin, immediately looking for ways to escape, Sam laughs too.

“Step one, down. Find the laugh,” Sam grins. “That was great. Now, step two, reward the laugh.”

Sam slides off the bed and pulls out a bag from under the bed. Well, she’s too curious to run now, despite the fluttering beat of her heart.

Sam presents a blue lollipop, and she is almost vibrating with excitement because it was one of those cartoonishly large ones, like a small plate on a stick and when she takes it from his fingers, almost snatching it, he laughs.

“Damn, you really do love blueberries, don’t you?” he teases.

“Yes,” Natasha replies tearing the plastic covering off and licking it. It is excellent. Sweet sugary blueberry on her tongue. She smiles, and it feels almost natural.

* * *

Natasha is surprised by an attack one day because she was thinking about Sam. She was eating lunch on Sunday when she felt a sudden rush of air behind her. Natasha turned immediately, getting a knife in her shoulder for her trouble. She blocked the pain and moved, slamming her empty try against Zoya’s head. Zoya rips her out of her seat and they grapple for dominance. The rule was that only one Widow can fight another in rare occurrences like these, no other may interfere, so while they watch, waiting for a death, Natasha does not have to worry about another rival.

Natasha punches Zoya until her jaw cracks, and Zoya flips them, jumping up and moving to grab a gun from her waistband. Natasha dodges the shot as she slips to her feet in one fluid motion, but gets grazed anyway. She kicks out and Zoya grabs her leg, slamming her other elbow down on Natasha’s ankle and breaking it.

Natasha gives a shout and pulls her own knife, slashing at Zoya and getting her to drop the leg. She throws the knife and is pleased when it sticks in Zoya’s gut. Not fatal, but certainly painful.

Zoya yanks it out and shouts as she leaps at Natasha. Natasha puts her arms in front of her face to protect herself and feels Zoya slash there, but now she’s out of momentum and Natasha rushes forward, making Zoya slam into the floor and a growl one arm pinned under Natasha’s knee. She punches Zoya in the head repeatedly, pressing down on her neck with the other hand. Zoya stabs her in the side twice and Natasha shifts to snatch her wrist, holding it as she grabs the gun off the floor, putting it over Zoya’s sternum.

She looks up at the closest Instructor.

The woman considers Zoya, who looks at her with pleading eyes, and then nods at Natasha.

Natasha fires.

The body goes limp and Natasha feels guilt slam into her.

She didn’t want to do that, she didn’t want to, but she had to and an attack like this required it. If she hadn’t, the Instructors would have and she would have been punished, maybe killed.

Natasha limps to the infirmary where she is patched up by uncaring hands and sent on her way.

She sits on her couch and stares at the TV, which is black.

She can’t help but think of what Zoya could have done with her life. She never had a friend. She died on the mess hall floor with nobody lifting finger to stop it. No one would miss her. And wasn’t that a lonely existence? It’s likely that nobody would even think of her again. She was younger than Natasha, starting high school next year as she just turned fourteen.

She didn’t even live to see her fifteenth birthday and nobody cared, nobody would care. It made Natasha so damn grateful that she had a friend, that she had Sam, someone who cared, actually truly cared.

Natasha pushes these thoughts out of her mind with rationality, and after a while, she feels a little better, but she can’t stop thinking about it. She regrets it, of course, like all the other deaths she caused, but she rationalizes that that’s more lives spared in the end. Zoya was on the path to becoming a cold-blooded assassin and Natasha had no choice. If she spared Zoya, Natasha would have been punished for her mercy, most likely killed for her weakness, and Zoya would be punished for her failure, though being killed was also a possibility. Natasha’s hand was forced and she made a decision.

It was so quiet in the room, it felt like too much, but she was in too much pain to turn on music that night. She managed to climb up to her sleeping area and pass out.

Natasha messaged Sam the next day, and he says that he’ll visit that night. Sam sneaks out of his foster house clutching a steak knife he took from the kitchen to protect himself in case anyone tried to attack him, hyperventilating after running all the way there joined with his anxiety. Once his breathing evens out and he climbs up into the cubby, he takes a look of Natasha, that heartbroken expression fills his eyes again and he gently wraps his arms around Natasha.

He holds out a bag and Natasha feels something heavy and happy in her chest to see blueberry muffins in a plastic container, fresh from the bakery. Natasha almost cries when she takes the first bite of perfection and wonders how she ever lasted without comfort when she was hurt.

At that thought, she does start crying.

She’s been compromised.

 _“Ricky was ‘L’ but he’s home with the flu. Lizzie, our ‘O’ had some homework to do. Mitchell, ‘E’ prob’ly got lost on the way, so I’m all of love that could make it today,”_ he says.

Natasha hugs him tighter, even if it hurts and presses on her wounds. So, so, so unbelievably compromised.

* * *

The end of the school year appears without much fanfare and soon enough Natasha is on summer break.

Technically speaking, that was.

Despite being on ‘break,’ she was back to regular Red Room instruction as soon as the sun rose the next day, which made her feel exhausted. Not physically, but emotionally, which was a new experience. She was busy with full-time training until six, barring any interruptions or extensions or demonstrations, and still has other things to do, like assignments, but sometimes she manages to treat Sam to food or they go skating. She has the phone, after all, so she can talk to him whenever she’s able to, but she’s always so busy despite this.

So she goes through the motions, training, work, weapons assessments, ballet. They’ve started driving her harder than ever, and Natasha senses some resentment in the other Widows. Resentment is a pure form of passion and a driving force for most of the girls.  It makes them work harder, faster, longer, and gives Natasha a run for her money. Most of the time, she finds herself overexerted and covered in blood and sweat. Her own or someone else's.

She still goes skateboarding and sings loudly in the middle of the night, but she doesn’t really go anywhere else. She doesn't have the time, doesn’t have the strength. It’s dull without Sam.

A month into ‘break’ they have a showing. The regular line up attends, businessmen, politicians, rich people, whatever. Three girls get missions, but the last guy, some older man in a business suit, has a different request of the Red Room.

“I have this boy, one I’m planning on using as my personal assassin. He’s sturdy, capable, and we’re forcing his obedience, but I feel my trainers aren’t doing enough with him. After this demonstration, I realize that you’re clearly the best for the job.”

“You want us to train a boy,” Natasha’s Instructor says, flabbergasted, and it says something that she looks flabbergasted. “The Red Room is an institution for female students and staff. We’ve never taken a male student.”

“Well, times are changing. Sometimes we’ve got to change with them. I’m willing to pay a hefty sum,” the man adds. “Monthly.”

The teacher purses her lips and looks towards the other Instructors. “How much?”

“500,000 a month,” he says. “That is if I see satisfactory results. And I’ll have one of my men keep watch. The boy sometimes gets unstable.” He makes a hand motion.

The Instructors nod slowly. That was a good price. For little effort, in reality. Natasha was impressed herself. “The offer is tempting, and after a clarifying discussion, I don’t see why we can’t consider the partnership,” she said at last.

 _“A boy,”_ Natasha whispers to Valya, and maybe it’s not the best time to break position or speak, but the instructor just looked flabbergasted, that was enough to make several of the girls shift uncomfortably.

Valya stares at her, uncomprehending.

Maybe if these bland bitches watched a movie ever, they would get the reference to Easy A. Natasha knows she’s the black sheep, but if someone tried to talk pop culture to them, they would realize that they were sleeper agents immediately.

Valya tries to stab her and Natasha breaks her fucking hand and then decks her so hard she gets knocked clean out.

Rude, Natasha thinks down at Valya’s unconscious form, right in front of a guest.

* * *

A week later, Natasha watches the boy arrive.

He’s stocky, on the shorter side but not short, and sturdy, as the man said. He stood with his weight settled into his heels, eyes straight ahead when they didn’t need to be focused on something, an expressionless face. He had long brown hair, perfect for braiding, and grey eyes that looked around dully. The boy looks to be Natasha’s age, so around fifteen. He also had only one arm.

It kind of fascinated Natasha, remembering that the man said this boy was his personal assassin. She can imagine the difficulties that came with a lack of a limb, having fought when her arm was broken when she was eight. She can also imagine the advantages. She remembers a story of a boy who wanted to learn… some martial art and the teacher taught him a move that can only be blocked by grabbing his arm, the arm he didn’t have. He won the championship. Or the prize. She hadn’t read the story in a while, she was fuzzy on details.

But she was impressed. And intrigued.

Getting closer, she got a good look at his face. His eyes though… were those of a dead man. They were blank, emotionless, and dull.

She thought about what the man said, how they were forcing his obedience… Natasha wondered what that entailed, even though she could see its effects. The boy was brutal, ruthless, powerful, relentless. Unstoppable. He was truly something to be wary of, and the way his eyes locked on target, never moving, never faltering, never giving up was fascinating. It was like watching a hunting wolf, a striking viper, a panther stalking prey.

Something in her head clicks and aggressively says that this boy is going to be her friend. She’s going to corrupt him before the Widows do. Natasha isn’t going to let this one try to kill her daily. He is special and she needs him to be her friend. It's decided.

He joins them for all lethal training, his guard carefully watching. The man was young, maybe thirty, and had some facial hair, but not really a beard or mustache. It was more like a shadow. His hair was kind of fluffy, but his posture was steel and his eyes were sharp. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall and eying everyone, though he was polite with the Instructors.

Later in the day, around lunch, the boy squinted and faltered in a punch, suddenly looking confused.

The man moved quickly and said something in Russian to the boy, putting his hand right on his chest to keep him back. His eyes went dead after the guy finished speaking and Natasha tilted her head as she watched. The man looked up and caught her eye and Natasha did not break the stare. She kept her face blank as they looked at each other. He looked away first, playing it off as double checking the boy before going back to lean against the wall.

The next time it happened was just before dinner. The man was talking to an Instructor and the boy’s eyes started clearing, life filtering in, emotion in the form of concussion, loss, bewilderment, so Natasha sprinted out of her hiding spot, pushed Alena out of the way with both hands and a spat a fierce _“Dibs!”_

She grabbed the boy’s hand and rushed out, “Come with me if you want to live,” dramatically.

Natasha made it back to her room in twenty seconds, the boy in tow. He started looking around, confused, so Natasha sat him on her couch. His head swiveled as he looked at the room, looking at the furniture and the things Natasha had collected.

“So,” she said when he looked back at her. “I’m Natasha. You’re going to be my friend now.”

“Okay,” he finally managed, eyes clearing as perception came to him. His new face was so expressive and Natasha was caught by his eyes. Those eyes had been lifeless until minutes ago and now she felt like she could see his whole life in them. “My friends call me Bucky,” he added.

“Bucky it is,” she replied and waited, examining him as she waited for him to say something in response. He had very nice hair, and she could, just faintly, see something metallic near his temple, hidden by this hair. When he did not reply, she added, “I have only one friend, but we met in a different way. I don’t know what comes next now.”

Being honest got Sam to be her friend, so it stood to reason that it would work on Bucky as well. Or, if it didn’t, he wasn’t worth it. It was a delicate balance.

“I- um. I don’t know, we could, uh, play video games,” Bucky offered and then looked pained and uncomfortable. “Wait, no- I can’t play anything with one arm.”

“I-” she starts, matter of factly. “Have a Wii.”

Bucky blinks at her and after a brief pause says, “That might work.”

Natasha set up Mario Party 8 because it was one of the games that only needed the one controller, and handed him a remote. Bucky got settled and they started in in relative silence, only the sounds from the TV playing. She felt like she needed to say something, but she had nothing as of yet to say.

“So… what’s this place?” Bucky finally asks.

“This is the Red Room,” Natasha explained and tried to think of how exactly to phrase what the Red Room was. “It’s a Russian KGB sleeper cell. They train female assassins to serve the Russian government.”

Bucky stared at her. “And what about me?”

“You’re a special case,” she agreed. “Your organization is paying for my mentors to train you as well, despite the fact that you’re a boy.”

Bucky pretty much sunk in on himself, looking miserable and torn, pain coming to his eyes as he sat there and processed that. Natasha watched this, watched him struggle with what she said. He was so expressive, and the heart-ache he was feeling could be seen in his eyes, the guilt, the stress. He noticed her looking at him and they met eyes for a moment.

“Do you like what they’re making you out to be?” he asked and Natasha felt surprised at the question. It was remarkably perceptive.  Sort of like how Sam was.

She blinks back in reply and finds herself with a short, and apt, answer. “No.” The truth could often be as simple as that.

There was a silence again as he took that in and glanced around. “Yeah…” Bucky started, sounding thoughtful. “So why are you still here?”

“If I leave, they’ll track me down and execute me,” Natasha replied easily. “They hate me enough that they’d see it as an excuse.”

“They hate you?” Bucky says, looking confused. “Why would they keep you around then?”

“Because I’m the best they have,” she tells him, feeling the coldness under her skin creep up as anger and injustice burns in her throat. The emotions are tangled and hard to control, so she pushes them down as much as she can. “They don’t like how I- I’m a person. They try to make me a shape they can mold into anything that suits them, but I don’t budge, and they don’t like that.”

“Well,” Bucky started, hesitantly. “We can be people together. Right?”

Now that… that was interesting. Sam was very adamant with how Natasha was a person despite everything that happened to her, everything she did. Now, someone who really understood the feeling of being a weapon, being nothing but a tool, being a non-person was saying that together, they could be people. It made her feel… warm, understood, a little amused in her agreement of the statement.

She nodded firmly at him and he smiled this little broken thing that held the sadness he was pushing down. Yes, the could be people together.

* * *

The door opens with a bang and Natasha was ready in an instant, gun up and aimed at the door. She ignored the music that was playing for the moment to analyze the threat. She and Bucky had really gotten along in the time they spent together, and she found that Bucky has a very nice singing voice. He sounded like he should be a professional, and his voice was sweet as it was soulful when a song that matched the attitude came on.

However, ‘I Don’t Care’ by Fall Out Boy was not exactly a sweet or soulful song. But, again, he also had passion, he had excellent timing and tune and he sang like he meant every word.

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova!” an Instructor shouts over the music, and Natasha lowers it with a remote because she hates when people yell over music. The threat being deemed moderate, she keeps the gun up but does not move to attack or defend. The man is standing behind the  Instructor, looking around with wide eyes at the room.

“Yeah, what?” Natasha says, pushing her sunglasses up.

“James, we’re leaving,” the man demands.

“Rumlow-” Bucky began.

“Now.” His tone was cold and dangerous and Natasha looked over to watch Bucky fall in on himself, taking off Natasha’s things, dropping them on the bed. She doesn't like it. She doesn’t like the way that he vanishes when this man speaks to him and she lets herself frown at this- Rumlow.

“Hey, dude-bro,” she says to him and he glares back at her in reply. This next sentence is calculated and she hopes Bucky doesn’t hate her for it. “Don’t you think it would be easier to get Bucky places if he wanted to go? If you keep coming here and let us mess around after training, I bet he’ll be less depressed about having to do shit while brainwashed. Might even come willingly.”

Bucky looks at her, and his expression doesn’t look betrayed, just wondering, and then at Rumlow who’s scratching at chin while thinking.

“James, that true?” he finally asks.

Bucky looks at Natasha, and she looks back, keeping her face blank so he could make the decision.

“Can- can’t I just have this one thing? If nothing else?” he manages. “Please. I don’t-” his voice breaks and he stops.

Rumlow eyes him and then sighs. “Fine. Fine, whatever, just get your ass to the car.”

Bucky follows the man out and Natasha watches him glare at her again. Natasha turns the full force of her anger and malice on him. She feels icicles on her skin and her eyes feel hollow and dangerous. She wants him to know how dangerous and angry she is with one look, with one exchange of the eyes, and when he turns away she knows he understood.

* * *

The next day, Natasha and Bucky play Twister, though she doesn’t give him any ‘left-hand blank’ spins. When they’ve given up, Natasha paints his toenails, sticking her tongue out as she concentrates. She knew that people, real people, did this at slumber parties. It was a thing. She saw it in movies. Plus, it was a little fancy.

“Have you seen the new Annie?” Bucky asks conversationally.

 _“It’s the hard knock life, for us,”_ Natasha mumbles. _“It’s the hard knock life~ for us! No one cares for you a bit~ when you’re a foster kid! It’s a hard knock life!”_

“That’s actually my favorite song.”

That’s maybe a little sad, but it also was a pretty good song in general. “I actually went to the theater with my friend Sam to see it,” she tells him. “It was good.”

“I like the original Dumb Dog too. I don’t know, I just feel like Hard Knock Life fits, well, our lives the best,” Bucky trails off. There it is.

“I get that,” Natasha said, backing off to let the sky blue nails dry. She’ll add little suns in a second, after they’re set. “I’ll buy it so we can watch it here. They give us a twenty every week.”

“That explains-” Bucky gestured with his hand. “Your room.”

“Yeah. I think the other girls stock it up for when they graduate,” Natasha adds. “I steal from them sometimes.”

“Graduate?”

“Yeah. When they turn twenty and get the surgery, have to pass a skills assessment, and then they’re let loose on the world. Taking assassination jobs, spying for the KGB, government infiltration.”

“Surgery?”

“We’re not supposed to have kids,” Natasha explained.

“Jesus Christ. That sucks.”

Well… sort of, yeah. It was a complex issue.

“Hey, your last name is Romanova, right?”

“Yeah,” she confirms, shaking the yellow nail polish. His nails are dry and ready for tiny suns.

“Is that Russian?”

“Yep,” she says. “The Red Room is a Russian organization. It would be weird if we were all American.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, looking embarrassed. “Well, anyway, I think I know Russian, but I can’t tell. They… taught me? Or downloaded it?”

“Oh, that’s fun,” she says. “We’re gonna turn you into a real Red, I’m guessing.”

“My communist agenda is nobody’s business but my own,” Bucky says immediately and Natasha laughs, almost messing up his third toe. Almost. He was funny and he made her laugh. That was a good thing. She liked that.

“Same,” she replied.

Bucky gives a little chuckle and then stares at the ceiling, considering. “I mean, communism could work, but only in a society with no money. And where people weren't greedy as shit. Like, I got it all figured out in my head. Basically, you have a working class that gets assigned jobs based on their skill sets and personal preferences and you’ve got a committee of experts in all the fields of work that manage that shit. Their job is to manage that shit. Nobody gets paid though, only provided a house. Like, nice apartments, kind of houses. Of course, the size is based on how many family members you have so there are different buildings with certain amounts of rooms, right?”

“I’m into this, go on.”

“Right. So, school is free but they pay more attention to your skills and interests so they can put you in certain classes to kinda groom you for a job. By the time you graduate, you’ve got a career and all the knowledge you need to begin. You learn more on the job, but yeah. Oh, and people can put in requests for new jobs after a certain amount of time, so they don’t get mad stuck doing the same thing. And there are research teams too, of course, because they wouldn’t be all knowing.”

“What people work for is their homes, kinda. See you gotta contribute to get back, right? But of course, you gotta consider the disabled, mentally and otherwise. People who are mentally disabled can still do things, but if they can’t, they’re still respected and cared for by people who have the job to take care of those people. Compassionate types, you know? And a lot of people who are physically disabled can do stuff and if they physically can’t they can probably have assistants or assistive technology provided by the research teams, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not perfect, but it sounds efficient at least,” Natasha said. Natasha finishes the suns and grabs the black polish for tiny sunglasses.

“So there are elections, sort of, where the people put in suggestions but the council makes the final decision based off how suited for the job each candidate is,”  Bucky says. “Because people are fucking stupid and make bad decisions all the time.”

“Amen.”

“So like the council is made of like, people who are experts in a subject, like agriculture manages the crops and farms and stuff, and the economist keeps an eye on things economically and so on and so forth and these people talk to each other all the time. If the food and wellness expert sees a rise in some vitamin deficiency, they’ll tell the guy managing food production and they’ll work it out, right?”

“Nice.”

“Like, and they all work for the betterment of the human race,” Bucky finishes. “Or, I don’t know, in practice, it might be more complicated than that, but I think I have some basics.”

“That’s a solid plan,” Natasha agrees. “Too bad people suck.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah.”

Natasha starts on the glasses. “Hey, do you know how to skateboard or anything?”

“I, uh, can, but I don’t have a board and that was before I lost my arm, so I don’t know-”

“How’d you lose your arm anyway?”

“Got fuckin’ crunched in a train accident.”

That was blunt. And vaguely amusing. “Dude.”

“It’s actually kinda funny now,” Bucky says consideringly. “Along with all sorts of lacerations and metal embedded in my arm, my upper arm was broken backward, my elbow was shattered, my radius and ulna were broken twice, backward and forwards, like a fuckin’ staircase, my wrist was fine, and my hand was mostly mangled. I’m pretty sure my thumb was torn off, metal went through my palm, almost fully severed, and that all sounds gross, but here’s the funny part. All my fingers but one were pushed down into my palm."

“No,” Natasha said, horrified and amused. She wanted to laugh, but that felt in poor taste.

“That’s right, I was flipping off everybody with my fucked up mangle arm. It sucked to lose it, but now everything sucks, so I’m gonna find what little joy I can in the last hour I had that stupid arm. I was the one guy who flipped everybody off.”

“That’s incredible,” Natasha told him. And a funny as hell story about gore.

“Goddamn right,” Bucky agrees. “Well, I mean, it was in Italy, so like, nobody actually understood that was what was up, but I heard about it after.”

Natasha smiled and went back to work on his nails, putting in a few little touches.  “So, up for skating next time? You can use my board. I’ll invite my friend. He’ll like you. And you’ll like him. He is… like a sunflower. Very bright, open.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees.

“And… done. You like them?” Natasha pulled herself up to sit next to Bucky, leaning against him and putting her arm over his shoulders like how she does for Sam. Bucky shifts to be a little more comfortable, then leaning back into her, like he needed more, and looks down, wiggling his toes.

“I love ‘em.”

* * *

She does not see Bucky the next day, so she decides their meeting has been postponed until further notice. She’s worried, of course she is, who knows what they do to Bucky at his organization, but she accepts that he isn’t there and waits. When he comes back six days later, he is a dead man walking again and goes through training with them as usual. Rumlow explains his absence with a mission and additional testing that needed to be conducted to ensure his future survival in this line of work.

When training was over, Bucky comes to her looking haunted and confused and stressed. She sneaks Bucky out and walks him to the boarding place.

“You sparred today,” she tells him as they cross a street.

“Yeah? How was I?”

“You fight… big,” she explains. “You take up a lot of space, use your size to overpower your opponent, and hit hard. You don’t pull any punches and your eyes never leave your target. It’s like watching a lioness hunt.”

“Not a lion?”

“Lions don’t usually hunt. They defend. Lionesses are in charge of hunting in a pride,” Natasha informs him because she knew this from the Discovery channel. “You fight like a predator. You actually walk like you’re there to murder someone. Head down, eyes up, wide stance, firm certain walk. It’s fascinating.”

They finally arrive at the shop and she leads him into the back to see the skate area. He’s instantly overwhelmed, but with some pushing, she gets him suited up and lets him go through some motions, getting used to it and walking up old reflexes and skills.

When she thinks he’s adequately prepared, she gets him up on the tallest halfpipe they’ve got and on her board.

Sam gets there late but climbs up after a bit, scooter over his shoulder.

“Oh, hey Sam,” Natasha says.

“Yo,” Sam replies and smiles easily at her. “This the new guy?”

“Yep. Bucky, meet Sam. Sam, Bucky. Bucky’s messed up like me too.”

“What, the murder people stuff?”

“Not yet,” Bucky says. “Right now, my life's a different kind of fucked up.”

“Do- do you wanna talk about it, man?” Sam asks and Natasha finally gets to see how he works his charm, his concern, toward someone who isn’t her. He’s very open and cautious, genuinely concerned. Natasha can see Bucky’s expression fracture and conflict brush over his features under a torrent of just genuine feeling.

“I- I’m not going to tell you everything,” Bucky says, looking away and fiddling with his hair.  “But I was frozen alive like four days ago.”

Natasha blinks slowly. She is going to kill someone.

Sam looks very concerned, as concerned as Natasha is feeling in her heart. “Shit.”

Bucky nods dumbly. “Yeah, so that’s where I’m at. Got defrosted yesterday. Sucked.”

Sam reached out and patted his shoulder gently, reassuring. He was very good at shoulder pats.

“So yes,” Natasha says because if she thinks on this any longer blood will be spilled and she may die spilling it. “But that’s not why we’re here. We’re here to push Bucky down this ramp. It will be hilarious.”

“For you,” Bucky replies and hands her a top. “Good thing I’m not scared of death, though. If I die, bury me with my that top and Star of David.”

“I got you,” Natasha says, but is interrupted by Tom showing up.

“Hey, Natasha, who’s your new friend?” He smiles at Bucky and Bucky gives an uncertain wave back.

“Bucky. He hadn’t been on a board in-”

“Almost two years,” Bucky says.

“And I’m making him go down this.”

“That’s a horrible idea,” Tom says.

“Oh, I know.” Natasha urges Bucky on. “Go.”

Bucky sighs, mumbles something that’s either a prayer or cursing, and then says, loudly, _“I can do it, yes I can, ‘cause I’m a Jewish American!”_ and he leans.

His wipeout is spectacular. On the bump in the middle of the thing he leans too far back, the board goes off into the distance and he flies down the other side with a strangled shout. After a second, with everybody looking his way, he says, “Not dead!” He sticks up a thumbs up in confirmation.

“Whoo!” Natasha shouts clapping loudly, because her dumb depressed boy deserved a cheer for that. “That’s my boy!”

Sam laughs and after a moment, she hears a muffled chuckle from down the ramp. It makes her feel warm, hearing her friends laugh, and she smiles at both of them.

Bucky does get the hang of things, but not past an intermediate level, though he is along the edge. With more practice, Natasha doesn’t doubt that he can be just as good as her, though his maneuvers will undoubtedly be different depending on the necessity of a left arm for some tricks. She bets he’ll fix them to not need it at all and she’ll be a proud mama duck.

She smiles down the ramp and thinks ‘hell yeah, I’ve got _two_ friends!’

* * *

Bucky and Natasha get along swimmingly. They’re yins to each other's yangs and for the summer vacation before their sophomore year, they’re inseparable. Sam is busier than he isn’t and their schedules are weird, but they have a group chat and they make it work. Bucky tells them about his friend Steve who’s also in the foster system and that he misses him almost as much as he misses his arm. He tells them how one of Steve’s foster parents, a crazy Christian nutjob, stabbed him about a year ago because he was basically obsessed with the sin of gluttony.

“That’s fucked up,” Natasha says.

“Yeah, it is!” Bucky insists.

“Dude, that’s metal as shit,” Sam agrees.

Bucky shrugs with his hand. “Yeah, but now he’s fucked up about food,” he put in.

“I mean, who wouldn’t be?”

Everyday Natasha watched her friend become a brainless zombie and she hated it. His eyes were so dull and he would bend backward to comply with the orders he was given.

One day, Bucky finished his training and stumbled to Natasha’s room looking haunted and shell shocked. Natasha guided him to the bed, tucked him under a blanket, and sat with him, braiding his hair until he found the ability to speak. This was a new feeling he was expressing. This was worse. This was bad news and he needed to be tucked in and his hair was to be braided. That’s what Natasha would want if she felt like Bucky did.

“I- I hate when they make me do stuff and I start missin’ time,” Bucky croaks. “But yesterday, after I got back, they used the words and shit got fuzzy and next thing I know I’m covered and blood and Rumlow is just waitin’ for me to snap out of it.”

Bucky shrinks, eyes wet. “I think they made me kill a guy. They made me kill someone,” he whispers. “I’m scared, Nat.”

Natasha pets his head and keeps him present. She doesn’t think now is the time to say anything, to confirm or deny or pry into the matter. Now is a time to sit and keep watch, make sure Bucky doesn’t feel more pain than he’s already in and to soothe the ache of fear he’s got in his head. Bucky wasn’t born for this. He was a soft soul. He liked games and singing and plants and people. Natasha likes proving herself capable despite having a goddamn personality and is willing to hurt people for it.

Now, she had long since given up on her getting out of this, but in that moment, she would kill everyone in this facility and herself to keep Bucky safe.

She doesn’t. It wouldn’t work.

_“The sun’ll come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun. Just thinkin’ about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and sorrow, till there's none. When I’m stuck with a day, that’s gray and lonely, I just stick out my chin and grin and say: oh, the sun’ll come out tomorrow. So you gotta hang on till tomorrow, come what may…”_

* * *

Bucky’s Russian is impressive. His accent is slightly off, but his pronunciation and grammar is spot on, especially for someone who’s only been learning it for less than three months. His skills bleed over, from brainless zombie too tired teenager, so he starts speaking in Russian to Natasha too. She helps him develop his vocabulary more and takes him out to buy disgusting American-Russian foods from a local spot she likes.

Sam tags along when he can.

She sometimes suspects that they’re more than friends, though not in a romantic sense, but she thinks that they do things that normal friends don’t. For fun, she lets Bucky try on her clothes, even sports bras because it’s hilarious to see him half nude in a pink bra while doing interpretations of Victoria's Secret models. When the AC was broken that one time, they all hung around in nothing but their underwear half on top of each other to get the most out of the cheap fan Natasha bought the other day.

She saw the cigarette burns on his arm and back. They were scattered around, bright spots that look like chicken pox.

“Nice cigarette burns,” She says, watching him wince. “Wanna see mine?” She pulled off her sports bra and laid back down, letting the boys see the marks. Sam doesn’t say anything because it’s nothing he hasn’t seen already, but she can feel their eyes on what they can see anyway.

Sam traced the Black Widow brand over her spine with the gentleness of a leaf landing on the ground during fall. Very poetic in his motion. Bucky, clearly having a lot of feelings, leaned over and kissed cig scars, leaving Nat blinking.

“To make ‘em feel better,” he explained.

“They’re old,” Nat said. “They don't hurt anymore.”

Bucky shrugged and said. “Penises” into the fan, which distorted his voice and made Natasha laugh.

Sam, Bucky, and Nat eat each others food, biting right over bite marks, and even nap together, at Sam’s foster house or one of the few safe areas that Natasha knows that is far from the Red Room. She lets them play boxes and dots over her burn scars because it was funny and hearing them curse over scribbling Crayola markers on her back was pretty fantastic.

It’s intimate, more than the friendships she sees at school, but she isn’t in love with them and they aren’t in love with her.

She likes how it works, but she’s unsure how it looks from the outside. Not that she cares, but still. They’ll be going to the same high school in a week, and she doesn’t want people thinking they’re dating. It would be so annoying.

* * *

Bucky was still training with them when he wasn’t on missions, of course, so it was no surprise to see him and his dead eyes during instruction some time later.

It hurts to see him like that, and Natasha thinks she understands that brokenhearted expression in Sam’s eyes whenever he sees that she’d been hurt. They’ve mostly been doing weapon practice and sparing that day, no espionage or gymnastics, so it’s no surprise to be called up, the table of choice weapons by her side.

Rumlow cocks his head when he sees her take position and whispers something to the Instructor.

She listened and when she looks at Natasha next, she grins.

Natasha feels her blood run cold. She can hear a few other girls whisper and murmur at the expression, stunned to see one of the best Instructors openly smiling with ice on her lips and hot embers in her eyes. That meant one of two things, that she was going to die, or that they knew something that would hurt not just her body, but her heart.

[Boy, forward,] the Inspector calls out and Bucky steps forward obediently.

No. No, they couldn’t do that, they couldn’t make her fight-

Oh, but that was clever. That was ice cold and clever. They wouldn’t let Bucky die, not with being paid so handsomely each month, so Natasha wouldn’t get one of the guns, she would be told to not take any lethal action. But Bucky was under no such conditions and Natasha was the most replaceable one. If he killed her, he would be heartbroken, he would want to die or stay in that dark place he speaks about. It was all about control.

The only solution to this was to disable him and not die. It would be hard because the Asset feels neither empathy or sympathy. He feels nothing, not even pain, and he is unstoppable.

[Asset, pick a weapon. You are permitted to use lethal force.]

Bucky picked up a gun and held it with his finger on the trigger. They trained him for maximum damage, maximum casualties, and that little action reflected that so broadly.

[Natasha, you are not permitted to use lethal force. Take those knives.]

Natasha picked up the two knives, both about as long as a switchblade. She would need them.

[Now, both of you, into the training room.]

Since live ammo was to be used, they would train in the bulletproof room, observed from an upper story and the door locked to prevent escape. They would be allowed out when one of them one or a stalemate was called.

Getting there was easy, getting not position was easy, receiving the call to proceed was hard. It was hard to see Bucky immediately bring up the gun and fire, but Natasha was stronger than her emotions, as compromised as she already was and she moved.

The fight was brutal, and Natasha did everything she could to stop Bucky. She dodged bullets and managed to slam into his side, knocking the gun out of his hand and bowling him over. He wastes no time with shock, he doesn’t feel it, so he wrestles with her, even as she slices at him with the knife, each straining to get the upper hand, but he is by far stronger and bigger than her. He managed to flip them over, keeping her pinned under his knee and weight, snatching the gun from the floor and aiming it at her sternum. Natasha stabs him in the side several times, as fast as possible, and his motion wavers, so she quickly presses his arm down as his finger pulls the trigger. Pain bursts over his vision as the sound fills her ears and she screams.

But Bucky doesn’t stop, he simply brings the gun up again, so she grabs his hand, moving it so if he pulls the trigger again the shot will go off beside her head, and she breaks his wrist with one quick motion. The sickening snap made her want to throw up, but she powered through because neither of them were going to die that day. He knew his only weapons now were his legs, so he shifted enough for Natasha to slip out from under him and before he could even get up all the way, one leg shot out and kicked him harshly in the side, cracking a few ribs with the force. He barely moved, still attempting to stand up, and she gave a solid roundhouse kick to his head, mentally apologizing.

He collapses and doesn’t get up, so Natasha puts her hand to the bullet wound in her side and shakily lowers herself to the ground, then carefully laying near Bucky.

[I’m sorry,] she whispered.

After less than a second he made a little pained noise and blinked his eyes open a few times. She can see him take stock of himself, and that tells Natasha that Bucky, the real Bucky, is awake and in control now.

He looks over and spots her. “Nat?” Bucky slurred, pain in his raspy voice.

“Hey. It’s you.”

“What-?”

“They made us go one on one, weapons allowed. You chose a gun. I took knives,” she explained. “Sorry for stabbing you multiple times.”

“S’fine,” Bucky dismissed and she hated that he was so alright with it. “You… okay?”

“You shot me. Non-vital area, through and through. But it’s okay. They’ll be here in a second to get us to a recovery bay.”

“I- I shot you?” And he looks so pained and regretful, tears already in his eyes. Nat, I-” he starts.

“Shut up, lay down, and hold my fucking hand,” she orders, holding out her hand and after a second she felt his blood slick hand in hers. “I don’t care that you shot me when you literally didn’t even know what was happening or whatever. I couldn't care less. So let’s just wait here and take in that this is what’s happening and we’re both fine and we’ll be fine, and later, when you’re all healed and I’m stuck on bed-rest, you’ll go buy me some blueberries or something to make me feel better and we’ll cuddle, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I like you. I don’t care. Buy me blueberries,” she clarified a second time.

“Okay.”

“I don’t have complex tastes.”

“Okay.”

“If you start crying, I won’t tell anyone,” she informs him.

“Thanks,” Bucky said, pretty much immediately starting to cry.

“I lied, I’m telling Sam.”

Bucky wheezes something like a laugh. “Traitor,” he says wetly.

Later, Sam is not impressed even a little. He looks so stressed and mad and sad and pissed. He yells and rants and swears and Natasha thinks he looks so indignant and adorable, that she laughs. It hurts, and when Bucky notices, he laughs too. Even though his ribs are broken and his wrist is broken and his arms look like he was mummified.

He did go through with buying blueberry things for her. One fresh container of blueberries and a lollipop to boot, so really she won. He passed them over as Sam was ranting and they Sam yelled at them about not taking this seriously.

“If we took this seriously, the stress of it all would kill us,” she replied and Sam faltered, distressed.  

Bucky laughed at that, and said, _“You are my best friend! If I’m dyin’, you dyin’ with me, ain’t no choice!”_

Which set them both off again and Sam started yelling at them again. When he burnt himself out vocally, he just pressed himself into Bucky like a pissed off cat who was going to give Bucky some comfort if he died doing it, hell and heaven be damned, he was going to fucking comfort them if he had to take out an army to do it.

It was really cute.

Whenever Bucky reminded him that they were fine, he growled furiously and told him to shut his dumbass mouth.

Bucky tried to hug him back and Sam hissed and replied with “If you try to comfort me when you are in need of comfort I will literally lose my god damn mind.”

Natasha smiled fondly at the pair of them as Bucky grinned down at Sam.

“And wipe that look off your face, I’m mad at you!” Sam seethed, red hot out of pure rage.

* * *

“No, you know I will not accept anything less than all of the blueberry flavored ones,” Natasha said sternly as Sam rummaged through the bag of Dum Dums she stole. “And I deserve at least nine root beer flavored ones for getting this bag.”

“That leaves me and Bucky with four each!” Sam argued back.

Natasha narrowed her eyes and Sam and pointedly looked over the edge of the building they were sitting on, to the pavement below.

“You wouldn’t fuckin’ push me, bullshit, get over it, I’m taking six, you’re getting five for taking all the blueberry ones, and Bucky is getting six.”

Natasha frowned, but then she rolled her eyes and let him take the amount, passing them to Bucky. It was nice to all be able to hang out, even if the say was sort of overcast. She had picked the rooftop because one, it was easy to access, and two, she liked the idea of eating Dum Dum’s on a roof.

“Here are the grape ones,” Sam said, dumping ten or so into Bucky’s lap.

“‘Fanks,” Bucky mumbled, hastily putting his soda down to sort through his collection.

“No problem, man,” Sam said as he rummaged around in the bag, Natasha peering over his shoulder. “Does anyone even like the apple ones? There's like, fifteen of them in here.”

“Chuck ‘em off the side,” Natasha said.

“I’ll vote no on that. I’ll just, I don’t know, hand ‘em out to strangers on my way home.”

“Why’d you bring us here, Nat?” Bucky asks.

And Natasha was suddenly struck with the fact that Bucky had been very quiet recently, and she knew he was seriously upset about everything that was happening to him. She decided to play it cool. “It’s a rooftop,” she says. Nailed it.

“Go on.”

“You can… see everything. And there's no people. I brought candy, Buchanan. I don’t know what else you want out of me.”

“I can’t believe that’s your fucking name,” Sam mutters.

“I don’t know the logic behind it either,” Bucky said, looking a little resigned. “Think it was dumb luck. So, what’d you do this week, Sam?”

“Nothing really interesting. Mostly stayed in my room. Read some books. Watched Jumanji. Nat?”

“Training. Movies. I went on a mission Wednesday. They had me assassinate someone's company rival. It was made to look like a suicide. Messy.”  It was actually one of her harder missions. There was a child. He saw his father in a pool of blood and Natasha heard his scream loud in her ears.

Sam offered his hand and after some consideration, she took it. It was soft and smooth, and his jagged fingernails scraped his skin slightly. “You do what you have to to survive. One day we’ll help you figure something out.”

Honestly? As cheesy as it was, the reassurance was nice. “Thank you.”

“Yo, Buck, I’m making it venting hour,” Sam said. “What do you have on your chest?”

Bucky was silent for a moment. “I’m getting whipped now, as a punishment. Or the Soldier is. He left witnesses, I heard. I know he’s… not real, not a person, but it’s still kinda fucked up. And it hurts. I can feel the scars catching on my shirt when I put it on, but I don’t want to look to see what it looks like.”

Oh. Natasha didn’t like that at all. She didn’t like the thought of Bucky being hurt. She didn’t like the idea of scars. She didn’t like any of it.

Sam looked seriously upset by that, but he stayed pretty calm, even as Natasha planned murders. “How are you feeling about all this today?”

Bucky sort of shrugged. “Pretty fucked up, but normal. Like, this is just how shit is now. And I want to jump off this rooftop, but I’m not gonna. But- I’m… I don’t like having all these scars. I don’t like how the look. I can’t go without a long sleeve shirt now and that- that sucks. I don’t want people to see what’s on my skin.”

“That’s normal. People usually only show what they have control over. Tattoos, as an example. But people often feel self-conscious over what they can’t control. Birthmarks, scars. It’s okay to not want people to see, but you shouldn't let the way they look to make you feel bad about yourself, right? Your mental health isn’t the best, no shit, right, but don’t let yourself make it worse.”

Bucky nodded. “Got it.”

“Do you want me to look and tell you have they look?”

Bucky stared into the distance for a good moment before nodding. Sam slowly put himself behind Bucky, kneeling down to lift the back of Bucky’s shirt. He hums at the sight and Bucky feel his finger trace the long broad marks. Natasha leans back to see a tangled mess of hot red scars on his back, crisscrossing and jagged. His skin was raised up because of poor healing and it generally just looked awful. It looked like it hurt. It made her angry.

“These aren’t great looking. Do they hurt?” Sam asked.

“Not anymore.” Bucky shook his head.

“That’s good. I’m glad they aren’t hurting you,” Sam says as he sits again. “I wish I could do more.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. None of this is fine. This is all super fucked up,” Sam reminded them both, looking between Natasha and Bucky. “We all know that. But we’re both here for you during this, so if something like this happens again, tell us.”

“If I can,” Bucky agrees, almost reluctantly.

Sam sort of hesitates after considering him, his expression, his body language. “Hey. If you’re willing to try something, I want you to think about the things you like about your body.”

“Right now, or like…?” Bucky asked, turning to look at them.

It was an interesting concept. Natasha watched them, rubbing her chin.

“Whenever,” Sam replied.

Bucky thought about it, visibly, and then brought up his shoes to glance at. “I think my feet look nice.”

Natasha grimaced. “We’ll see for how long. They’ve started teaching you some ballet.” Ballet had seriously messed up her own feet.

“Well, they ain’t half bad right now. And I like…” Bucky faltered and Natasha felt her heart clench for him. “I- I guess it’s cool that… my…”

Silence followed and Natasha knew she had to fix this. “You’ve got a great ass,” Natasha says, and both of them blink owlishly at her. She makes mimes grabbing a butt. “Firm and round. Not too big. Shapely.” Sam starts laughing and Bucky just keep blinking, stupefied. “It’s like on one of those nude statues.”

Sam starts cackling so hard that he almost falls off the building, so Bucky grabs him to hold him steady. Natasha threads a few fingers through Sam’s nearest belt look and smiles because she really likes his laugh.

Sam pats Bucky’s knee. “Thick thighs save lives,” he manages, face doing something complicated as he laughs and tries not to.

“You’ve got a pretty face,” Natasha adds. “And nice hair. It’s nice to braid and do things with.”

Bucky sort of looks unable to handle himself. “I- I’m really strong. That’s neat, I s’pose.”

“Well, there you go,” Sam praises. “There’s a fine little list. Feel a little better?”

“It’s easier to… not focus on the scars, I guess,” Bucky admitted.

“Better than nothing.”

Natasha needs to comfort him, she really wants to, but she knows that a hug will seem forced and sort of hollow. She looks down at her candy pile and gets an idea. She takes one blueberry Dum Dum and hands it over. Bucky seems to realize what this means and he takes it carefully.

“Thank you, Nat. I’ll savor it.” Bucky smiles and she likes his smile too, as broken and lost as it looks.

She nods in understanding, content that her intentions were translated successfully.

* * *

The first day of school is boring. Her classes are different, the people are different, the teachers are different, and she would rather be skateboarding. The novelty of her first year in High School has rubbed off through the stress of maintaining that double life and the lies and the pain she has to hide. Neither Bucky or Sam are in her first two periods too, which contributes to the boredom and stress and is lame.

At least, until she gets to gym class. They’re all already in their gym uniforms, and they’re clearly going to be playing dodgeball, which she doesn’t care for, when she and spots a familiar scruffy blonde head.

“Clint?” she feels stupid for saying it aloud, but he _hears_ and turns and Natasha spots hearing aids in his ears.

“Natasha?” he asks, bewildered, face lighting up as he goes. “Holy shit! What the hell are you doing here?!”

“I go to school here,” she says. “What about you? Last I saw you, you were a carnie in Iowa.”

“Carnies run the games, I was an artist,” Clint snarked, his words bold and showy like he was up on the tightrope right now. Natasha smiles at this, he’s very animated. “Why the fuck did you think it was a good idea to let a tiger out of a cage?”

“I told you, I had to scare a guy.”

Several people turn and stare, gaping while they realize that maybe, just maybe, the tiger story was true.

“One hell of a scare, I’m betting?” Clint asks, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms.

Natasha just grinned mischievously in reply.

Clint huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Nagia wasn’t even the scariest tiger, she was a sweetheart. She just liked cotton candy, and yeah, maybe she nipped fingers, but she was scared of the damn rats!”

“Well, it worked well enough for me. Now then, how good is your aim, again?”

“I’m the Amazing Hawkeye. Every arrow meets its mark, and I never, ever, miss,” Clint responded certainly.

“Do you want to team up and destroy them at dodgeball?”

Clint beams, excited like a kid in a candy shop. “Hell yeah!”

“Gym has D lunch, so meet me by the vending machines after this.”

“Awesomesauce.”

The coach blabbed on how he knew they didn’t want to exercise so they’d start with something fun. He picks Natasha and Brant to be team captains and pick from the lineup. She points at Clint and he skips over, grinning.

Natasha looks at the coach. “This is all I need.”

The coach flounders. “What?”

“I only need this person to win.”

The others start giggling and snickering at what sounds like total bullshit.

Coach Bender sighs and rubs his head. “You know what? Fine. I don’t have it in me to argue with you. The rest of you are with Brant.”

Natasha and Clint go to their side and start talking. “Okay, so this is a free for all. We get to use all of our skills to win. Face-shots and cock-shots are nos,” Natasha says, rolling her eyes because it would make this easier.

Clint laughs. “Okay, you supply me with balls, I’ll get ‘em out.”

“Brilliant,” Natasa says bluntly. “Let's kill ‘em.”

“Not literally.”

“No, not literally,” she confirms, disappointed.

When the coach blows the whistle and the stampede of thirty other kids runs for the line, already assuming that they’ve won, they're surprised when they start losing. Clint and Natasha weave through the assault of dodgeballs like they aren’t even there. Natasha catches most of them and rolls them to Clint, whose aim is true and always hits the mark.

Balls smack off flesh, sending disgruntled students to the bench. There is one shy looking boy in gym clothes that are way too big standing awkwardly near the front, sort of just watching the action and when Clint makes to throw at him, he flinches. Clint pauses, his game-excited features soften, and then gently lobs it over so it bounces lightly off the boy's shoulder. The boy blinks, nods and mumbles his thanks, and then goes to sit.

In two minutes, they’ve won and everyone is shocked.

“Holy fucking shit, they’re god damn aliens,” someone blurts out, and all of this student’s friends start roasting them.

Natasha looks at Clint, who is doing a stupid victory dance and thinks ‘That’s _three_ friends.’ A new record. Sam texts Nat during C lunch, Clint and Nat’s study hall. They’re being observed by a different teacher in the health room since they didn’t want students milling about in the gym.

_Birddabbler: so i got called to the office in homeroom to help out a blind kid b/c we’re in the same classes, except for gym and they didn’t want to get him a guide b/c they didn’t want to ‘waste money’ on it. Kk, fuckin rule and ableist but he’s p cool and a foster kid, he’s in the friend group now, kk?_

_borkybuns: cool, what’s his name_

_Birddabbler: Matt Murdock._

_Blueberrybabe: nice. I got a buddy too. Remember the archer carnie i told u about? Found him. I ate lunch with him. His names clint barton and he’s got hearing aids now_

_Birddabbler: y are u responding in class_

_Blueberrybabe: bc mrs. jules dont give a shit_

_borkybuns: o yah tru_

_borkybuns: oh, wait, i found my guy too, my steve._

_borkybuns: he’s in my history, first period_

Natasha blinked at the swarm of newly made friends, bewildered and baffled.

_Blueberrybabe: what kinda fuckery is this. Do ppl just make friends like this willy nilly?_

_Birddabbler: ya, sorta. I’m supposed to take matt from class to class and read him things that are in print and fill stuff in too, so we got friendly quick. Steve was buckys buddy b4 any of us, and reunited ppl make good friends._

_Blueberrybabe: now i feel dumb_

_Birddabbler: u got a messed up notion of how friends work bc u didn’t have any for like 14years, i think its find nat_

_Birddabbler: *fine_

_Blueberrybabe: i mean ur not wrong, but i feel socially stunted_

_Birddabbler: u are, but u still are a great friend, so really it isn’t that bad. Except when ur dudes say that they’ll kill me_

_Birddabbler: ttyl, class._

_Blueberrybabe: okay, lets do this: everybody plue new friends meet up at the skateplace k?_

Natasha, turns to Clint, “Do you want to go to a skatepark with me after school?”

Clint shrugged. “Sure. Got nowhere else to be.”

Natasha knew she wouldn’t get a reply from the rest of the crew for a while, so she shoved her phone in her pocket and peered at Clint until he glanced at her.

“What?”

Natasha brought up her hands and started signing. /So. You know about my… thing./

/I figured it out. You’re-/ Clint sort of cocked his head, looking uncertain. /Are you in the mafia?/

Natasha blinked at him. /No. But I am part of an organization that does illegal things./ “And I need you to not say anything to people.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve got you covered,” Clint agrees. “I’m no snitch.”

“You’ll like my friends,” Natasha says. “They’re not snitches either.”

“My kinda guys.”

When school lets out hours later, she starts checking her phone every ten seconds until she gets a reply.

_Birddabbler: kk, i convinced him_

_Birddabbler: but what’s the blind guy gonna do in a skate arena w/ nothing to skate on, even if he somehow can_

_borkybuns: Steves cool and im omw, but i gotta get my board first_

_Blueberrybabe: sam ur guy can do something im sure. If not, we can still hang or teach him to skate_

Natasha looked around and spots Clint walking her way, waving brightly. He jogs over, grinning. “So, where’s the digs?”

“This way,” she said and started walking. She had her board under her arm, and reasonably she could ride it, but Clint didn’t have anything, so no use being rude. Natasha and Clint arrived first and Natasha started warming up, flips and simple tricks, grinding a rail, ollies, and stuff. Clint climbed around and eventually got up into the rafters, beaming down at her periodically.

(Might not be able to skate, but I can climb!) he signed.

Natasha laughed at him because he was right after all. Sam arrived with Matt next, arm in arm, and Natasha observed him from the top of the half pipe for a second. A little shorter than Sam, dull red-brown hair, plastic sunglasses on his nose, holding a folded white cane in his free hand. He was dressed in a pair of black converse, sweatpants, and a black shirt.

“Ay! What’s up bird boy?!” Natasha shouted.

“I’ve been _feather_ !” he replies loudly. “How the _duck_ have you been?”

“Your puns are shit!”

“Sorry I’m such a _bird-en_!”

“I hate you!” _I love you._

“I love your puns!” Clint said swiftly. “They’re flock-en good!”

Sam beamed and pointed at Clint in agreement. “Ay, this guy!”

Natasha leaned forward and zoomed down the ramp, hitting the bump on the middle at high speed and using her momentum to backflip quickly and land still rolling. She leaned and headed right over to Sam and Matt.

“Matt, right? I’m Natasha. Nice to meet you.”

“You holding out your hand?” Matt asked.

“Not yet.” She did so. “Now I am.”

Matt held his hand toward her and she shook firmly, noticing his bust up knuckles. His posture. He was a fighter, she could read it in his body, the strength hidden beneath his innocent and harmless demeanor.

“You know how to go on anything that rolls?” Natasha asked.

“Used to,” Matt smiled wryly.

Natasha shrugged. “I just shrugged,” she added, quickly realizing that wasn’t something Matt would perceive. “That’s cool. We’re waiting on Bucky, who has a friend but I don’t know if he can skate. Top of the halfpipe is good, if you want to sit around,” she offered. “Oh, and Clint’s up in the rafters if you wanna give that a whirl.”

Matt blinked, taken aback. “W- you think I can do that?”

“Well, climbing is kind of by touch, so I guess? Why?”

Matt shuffles his feet. “People don’t think I can do things sometimes,” he mumbles. “And I don’t like it. So it’s nice if you think I can.”

“Oh,” Natasha said. “Okay, cool. Well, if you follow the wall to the back, you’ll find the back of the halfpipe and from there you can find a rafter. Clint, my ‘take your new friend to skatepark’ person is up there too, so you got immediate backup if you want it and I bet he’d be happy to have a bro”

Matt hesitated. “Thanks,” he breathes, tension seeping out of his shoulders.

Sam blinked, feeling it. “Woah, you held all that tension? Jesus Christ, you need a workout.”

Bucky came in just then with a small, exceedingly thin, blond boy with a scattering of tattoos and a scar on his eyebrow. He has blue hair and sharp blue eyes and seemed just happy to be there. Natasha waved them over. “Here’s the rest of the pack,” Natasha explained. “Steve and Bucky.”

Bucky grinned and joined them. “Steve, this is Sam, Natasha, and Sam’s buddy… Matt, right?”

“Yeah,” Matt confirmed.

“Nice to meet you, Matt,” Steve offers.

“And I already know your dumb ass,” Sam teases Steve, tapping at his shin with one foot. “How you been doin’?”

“Just swell, you?”

“Good, actually, I’ve got cool classes,” Sam replied. “Hey, there’s a counter-protest setting up to face off against a Pro-Life protest on a Planned Parenthood if you want to steal a riot shield again.” He grinned mischievously and Steve rolled his eyes.

“What?” Natasha asked, confused.

“We met at a protest,” Sam explained. “He stole a riot shield, threw tear gas back at the cops, and hit a cop.”

“What is the matter with you?” Bucky asked, sounding stressed and resigned.

Natasha smiled because he deserved one. “I like you,” she said to the smaller boy. “Now quick, what’s your opinion of blueberries?”

“Great snack,” Steve replied immediately. “Great with chocolate. Pie ain’t half bad.”

“I love him,” Natasha told Bucky. “He’s my friend now.”

“Sounds good. Hey, uh,” Steve hesitated, looking at Natasha. “Thanks for keepin’ an eye on Buck for me. Means the world.”

Natasha understood immediately that Steve knew what Bucky faced every day and felt relieved. “Somebody has to.”

“Ay, somebody outta keep an eye on you two asshole,” Bucky protested. “Stealin’ a fuckin riot shield, you maniac.”

Steve sputtered a laugh and when he was done, he glanced at Matt. “So, hey, Matt, do you skate or...?”

“No,” Matt replied. “But, Natasha told me that we have a mutual in the rafters and I’ll join him in a minute.”

Steve looked up and looked pained. “I see him-”  Natasha glanced up too and waved at Clint as he said this.

“I don’t,” Matt said and he smirked, pleased with himself when everybody looked at him.

“You’re fun,” Natasha said because that was a solid joke about his own disability. “I’ll keep you.”

Steve cleared his throat and continued. “But I’m afraid of heights. Gotta leave that to you, but good luck with that, yeah?”

Matt nodded and tilted his head toward where Clint was. “Clint, how do I get up there?”

“Go around the edge, to the back right corner, there’s a ladder up the ramp and you can climb into the rafters,” Clint called back.

Matt nodded and flicked open his cane and went his own way, so Natasha looked back at the group. “I figured we’d chill here for about forty minutes and then head to the park.”

Steve checked his watch, looking upset. “I gotta be back by six. Probably why we never met. Sam says you have whatever until then and that’s my ‘be home’ time.”

That made sense. Their schedules were all out of wack, which was understandable. The Red Room didn’t give Natasha much free time, and Bucky was being brainwashed and trained daily, so he was busy as well. It explains how Sam got to know Steve so well while they were both busy. “Well, that still leaves us plenty of time,” Natasha reasoned. “Come on, boys, let's go shred it.”

And she had a lot of fun, between watched the body in the rafters and skating with Bucky and Sam. They practiced tricks, exchanged tips, and quite a few yelled memes out at odd times. It was enjoyable.

“You know,” Steve says to Sam as they roll toward him. Sam watched to check in, so Natasha was just behind him. “We should have invited Rhodey.”

That was a new name. Did Sam know someone new? Sam smacks his forehead in realization and hisses, “Shit, yeah.”

“Who?” Natasha asks, wiping at her face briefly.

“Rhodey is this guy I met during the summer with Steve. He had some assholes fucking with him and we stepped in,” Sam explained. That sounds about right. Sam always liked helping people.

“But Rhodey would have brought his friend,” Steve added.

Sam considered and recalled, “Tony?”

“Yeah.”

After a little longer, they all went to the park and chilled there for a bit. Feeling lazy, they all sat on the grass under a tree and talked about random things. Natasha found herself fascinated by a lot of it. Clint knew Matt. He had met the guy during the summer, in a dumpster. Steve was a fighter, Natasha could tell, just not trained. He was also pretty prone to sickness, so that had to be annoying. He was deaf in one ear and sat in a way that his good ear was to everybody.

Bucky and Steve were draped over each other just like how Natasha, Sam, and Bucky drape over each other sometimes. That held some sort of promise for Natasha and she finds herself hoping she gets to be like that with Steve someday.

Matt was a bit of a mystery, but seems very passionate about justice and had this thrum of anger and malice under his skin that Natasha finds herself fascinated with. Clint seems to relax with everything said, sharing as he was shared with.

Sam and Matt leave first, then Steve and Bucky, and finally, Natasha and Clint part ways.

Natasha sleeps in the wall well that night and prevents her murder deftly in the morning.

* * *

Surprisingly, Natasha and her friend group become closely knit very quickly. They blend and mesh together like they were always supposed to, and Natasha meets the last leg of friends after about two weeks. Natasha would juggle with Clint, read books that didn’t come in braille for Matt, eat Steve’s food, and share her own.

Sam had discovered that this ‘Rhodey’ dude went to their school but had different classes and convinced him to bring his pals to a meet up at a shawarma place after school one day.

Rhodey was a tall guy wearing a polo and jeans, with a straight spine and a charming smile. Though he didn’t appear dangerous, there was a glint in his eyes that caught her attention. She noticed burn scars up and down his arms, faint but present, and knew there was more to Rhodey than he seemed. With him followed Tony and a smaller fidgety kid. Tony was a short chatterbox in cute clothing with a neat tidy haircut. He was probably the best dressed at the table and loved to drape himself over Rhodey with little care. Bruce, the last person and the boy who flinched in gym, was slightly taller than Tony, shy, and was very polite under that curly mop and too-big shirt than he pulled over his hands and fiddle with nervously. He spoke softly with bits of affection in his voice for his companions, getting excited and enthusiastic when they talked about science.

They ate and talked and, unfortunately, had no other friends to add to this group. The nine of them were the extent of all of their friend groups.

Tony held a bag out to Natasha. “Chocolate covered blueberry?”

Her weakness. Natasha eyes it, licking her lips, and says, “Yes.” Yes, Tony was a chatterbox, but he had taste and always had something interesting to discuss and, again, _very good taste._

Eight friends. _Eight of them._ That was more friend than the entire Red Room had combined.

Proud didn’t even describe the feeling she had. She was ecstatic. Elated. And fucking terrified. Of what they would think of her. She knew what people thought of assassins, mercenaries… She wanted to keep them so bad, but she wasn’t sure if she could, there were too many of them. Two was hard enough to protect. She knew Sam and Bucky would stay, and that Steve knew the truth… And maybe Clint, but Tony and Rhodey and Bruce?

She wasn’t sure, and Natasha, formerly fearless, was scared of what could be the results of their friendship.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, please leave comments and kudos! They are life blood! PLEASE SUBSCRIBE! I AM NOT ABANDONING THIS, NOT FOR THE END OF THE WORLD AND IT MAY BE WORTH IT!


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